


Thor 3 : Destruction of Ovaries

by EternalFangirl



Category: Actor RPF, British Actor RPF, Thor (Movies) RPF, Tom Hiddleston RPF
Genre: Costume designer, F/M, Faith in the Fandoms Collection, Workplace Relationship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-05
Updated: 2016-08-20
Packaged: 2018-04-19 03:51:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 35,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4731890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EternalFangirl/pseuds/EternalFangirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Faith has an impossible mission to fulfill: Go through the whole production of Thor: Ragnarok without letting Tom know she is one of his crazy fangirls. A task of Herculean proportions, because she is the set costumer for this movie.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Measuring

**Author's Note:**

> I know nothing about filming and production, etc. I am making the internet help me, but in case you know more than me and find something weird in my fic, please tell me and I will change it.

Ever look at a video of people meeting Tom Hiddleston and get jealous, entirely certain that the giggling fangirl in the video is the luckiest person alive? Ever wished upon a shooting star (and even tons of regular stars) that you get to meet him too?

Yeah, it’s hardly fun when the stars hear your prayer. It is fucking terrifying as all fuck, because you are supposed to behave like a rational human being and not make your favourite actor cringe with your antics. Which will be all the more difficult if you have to work with the tall drink of sexy everyday.

I am Faith, of Midgard, and I am burdened with glorious purpose. I am responsible for dressing up the cast of Thor: Ragnarok. I am new here, because my job used to be sitting back at the office instead of being on set. I made some of the clothes for the extras, and other odds and ends, but never set foot on set. That job was reserved for the more elite people of our group, namely Ben Allard, Jason Airey, and a few others.

Until the very start of the negotiations for Ragnarok.

Apparently, quite a lot of people were unhappy with quite a lot of things, they left, and before I knew it, I was next in the hierarchy to be on set. It was weird. Very wierd. Technically, Alexandra Byrne was the costume designer. I, however, was to be on set, leading the team. Being set costumer for a Marvel project was going to do wonders for my career.

If I didn’t freak out in this meeting.

Alexandra and I had a major task on our hands–Loki, being ruler of Asgard now, was more front and center in the movie. Among other things, we were tasked with creating an entire wardrobe based on an unpolished version of the script. This was one of the first concept meetings, just to get things started and pick one another’s brain. The actual costume display meetings with the rest of the crew would be later. Alexandra had already chatted with the director, Kenneth Branagh. I had a couple of ideas to pitch to Alexandra, but we had only met for a couple of minutes here and there, and I wanted to try and pitch them here. Besides that, we were taking Tom’s new measurements today.

“Hello,” said Tom as he entered the conference room, looking a bit harried. “Sorry I am late. I swear I really did get stuck in traffic.”

“Oh, stop it,” said Alexandra, laughing. “You are barely five minutes late.” She accepted his buss on the cheek.

Tom turned to me. “Faith? Hi, I am Tom.”

“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Hiddleston,” I said, then let out a very undignified squeak as Tom bussed my cheek too.  _Holy fucking horseshit!_

I sat there blinking rapidly like an idiot while Tom sat and exchanged some small talk with Alexandra, then we got down to business.

“Right,” said Alexandra. “You know we are absolutely going with the asymmetrical thing still. The costumes, no matter what setting they are in, need to have an essential tone of nonconformity.”

“Yes,” said Tom, nodding. “I get that. So, are we going with the same colors again? Black, green, gold?”

“Brown leather was good last time around,” I spoke up, insanely glad my voice was not quivering. If my hands were, well, at least they were under the table. “We were thinking of sticking to that.”

“I was also thinking,” said Tom. “What about nightwear? Sleepwear? Or does he sleep naked?” Once the words were out of his mouth, he laughed, embarrassed by his own words. “I mean…”

 _Stop your stupid blushing and act like a woman grown, you stupid fangirl! Speak up!_ “Well, I don’t think so.” Alexandra looked at me, wanting me to elaborate. I did. “Well, think about that moment in the last one when Thor visited him in his cell. Loki was devastated, and he looked it. But what did he project to Thor? Perfect hair, perfect poise. That is what he wants people to see.”

“Yes, but no one is going to see him when he is sleeping, Faith,” said Alexandra. “It is a great opportunity to display him without worry and relaxed. What he would like to wear if people weren’t looking.”

“I know,” I replied. “But all I am saying is, he can’t wear a Marvel T-shirt and sweatpants to bed. Because he isn’t relaxed at all. Asgard is not home anymore, not really, because everyone hates him. He said so, when Thor talked about home. He said, “I don’t have it.” He knows it is no longer his. But he still hopes.” Tom’s eyebrow winged up, and I suddenly realised I had said Loki’s dialogue in his voice and tone. I fumbled a bit, then continued. “Besides, his costume is important. Because it is not just an expression of who he is anymore. It is also an expression of who he is  _supposed_ to be.”

“Supposed to?” asked Tom.

“I mean, he wants to be that person. The God who doesn’t give a flying–” I caught myself at the last minute. “–damn what the world thinks of him. Screw Odin, screw Thor, I am a god in my own right.  _This_ is who I am. So his clothes cannot have a radical change–be red or pink or yellow. Because his clothes, and their stark difference from everyone else’s, tells him he is different from everyone. That he will not be loved, so he has to stop caring. Besides, as long as he is posing to be Odin, he is always going to be alert, always on guard. There are no deep sleeps for him.”

By the end of my impassioned speech, my inner fangirl was yelling at me to just shut the fuck up. So I did. Abruptly.

“You’re right,” said Alexandra. “We can’t give him proper jammies. And no naked sleeping.”

Tom shook his head. “No, he’s not going to be that defenseless. What did Kenneth think?”

“Faith wasn’t there, so the idea was colors you would probably never see him in. But Faith has an interesting point.” Alexandra opened the portfolio we had brought with us. “These are some of the rudimentary designs we are working on. Anything you want to add to the practicality or the wearing side of it? More zips? Extra something? Less something?”

Tom laughed. “Less swamp water in my chest cavity?”

We laughed too. It was hopeless. Then I pitched the second thing I had thought about. “If we can’t show vulnerability in broad costume choices, can we make little changes that hint at loneliness and vulnerability?”

“Like what?” Alexandra’s eyes were sharp.

“Like… I don’t know. Open collars? I remember looking at Adam in the open robe and thinking that he looked lonely and miserable. But then again, that was Adam.” Since I could hear my voice degrading to the really fast and exciting cadence of fangirl-talk, I stopped.

“Who’s Adam?”

 _Uh-oh. Freak behavior. Stop that!_ “Um, sorry. I speak like that sometimes. Sorry. Adam is just a character Mr. Hiddleston played. He was in OLLA. Oh, um, Only Lovers Left Alive. Great movie.” I was so flustered, I just wanted to hit myself over the head with a hammer and be done with it.

Tom was looking at me a little more speculatively now. Something I said? I looked away before it became hard to breathe. “So, open collars?”

“Let’s keep it in the mix,” Alexandra agreed. “I am going to give you some of this stuff as homework, Tom.” She cheerfully ignored his put upon groan as I envied her easy camaraderie with him. “Nothing major, just a little outline of what themes are important to show at what points in the script. Make whatever notes you want, and we will discuss it at the next meeting.” Her phone rang, and she whooped. “Fucking finally. Sorry, I have been waiting for this call for centuries. Faith? Could you measure him?”

Without waiting for an answer, Alexandra left me alone with the man I had once thought about  _very briefly_ while masturbating. What? I was ridiculously drunk. It was comic con. Yes,  _that_ comic con. Admit it, you did too.

Silently, I took out the one of the standard charts everyone in the costume department had. Then I turned to him. “Please take off your shoes, Mr. Hiddleston.”

“Tom,” he corrected silently. “You have a tendency to stop talking abruptly, Faith.”

“Huh?”

“Nothing, sorry. Carry on.”

Yeah.  _Keep calm and carry on._  “Your jacket too, please. Stand against the wall for a second?” I marveled at how good he could look trying to get out of his boots. I looked like a hippopotamus on crack if I tried to do it standing.

I took a deep, fortifying breath. Without a word, I walked forward, small sticker in hand. I reached up and stuck it where the top of his head lay against the wall. He moved away, and I measured his height. “Well, you are still six feet two.”

“I am shocked beyond words. I have been drinking my milk too.” When I looked up from where I was making a note on my page, he grinned at me. I couldn’t stop my answering grin.

I walked over to him again, sorely wishing for someone else to write down the measurements I took. I slipped the measuring tape behind him with one hand, catching it with the other to measure his chest. It was a bit like an awkward hug. Tom, however, was being absolutely professional. I liked that.

“Umm…” I wondered how to say this one. “Could you maybe sit for a bit?”

He smiled as he sat, and his amused eyes locked on mine while I took the measurement of his head. With the tape around his head he looked a bit dorky. He looked a bit like he did when he wore his headtorch so proudly–the one that flashes. I debated whether or not to tell him that. I didn’t.

“That’s done,” I muttered, moving on to the neck. And if my eyes stuck to his Adam’s apple a bit, well, it was just proof that I am a woman. Besides, at least I wasn’t staring into his eyes like a loon. Or throwing up with excitement.

“So tell me about you,”he said.

“Tell you what about me?” I countered distractedly as I measured from the top of his arm to his wrist bone down the outside, slightly bending the arm.

“Why you need to measure your words so much.”

I sighed, deciding the truth will shut him up. “Because I talk too much. Usually about things other people have no interest in, or are appalled by the amount of unnecessary knowledge. I am a fangirl, that’s what fangirls do.”

“Ignorance is the curse of God; knowledge is the wing wherewith we fly to heaven,” he said promptly.

“Brevity is the soul of wit,” I countered. “Listen to many, speak to a few. I can quote the Bard too.” We smiled at each other as I motioned for him to stand. “I am not hiding anything, Mr. Hiddleston. I am simply trying very hard to act like an adult, and a professional.” I wrapped the tape around his waist, his arms out to his sides.

“I have gotten fatter, haven’t I?”

I snorted in a very unladylike manner. “Fatter, my ass. You couldn’t if you tried.”

His eyebrow winged up as he took my non-verbal cue to thrust his leg out. “Really?”

“I mean, I am not saying there was no difference between Oakley and Coriolanus, cause there was,” I said as I recorded his outseam measurement. “All I am saying is, it is going to take a very big lifestyle change for you to grow fat.”

“Ah,” he said. Then he smiled again as I fumbled a bit awkwardly over the next bit. Well, at least someone was having fun.

“Inseam,” I said as way of explanation, handing him the starting end of the tape. He held it at his crotch while I knelt in front of him, trying to take an accurate reading at his ankle bone. My head was mere inches from his crotch, a fact I was very aware of. “You have ridiculously long legs, Mr. Hiddleston.”

“You know what? I have heard ‘Tom’ has a lot less syllables.”

“Okay,  _Tom_ ,” I said, then frowned as I noticed something. “You are holding it wrong.”

Tom looked down at his crotch and back at me. “No I am not.” He looked genuinely perplexed. “Am I?” He looked again.

“Hold it at that seam there,” I pointed to the inseam of his jeans. “You are like an inch away.”

He adjusted. “Okay?”

I nodded, then looked away as I realised I was kneeling before him and staring at his crotch. I hurried through the hip measurement. His hip measurement hadn’t changed at all either. I was a little jealous.

“Um… Tom? Kneel.”  _Do not grin. Do NOT grin. Be professional._

He laughed first, so I was off the hook for grinning. He sank to his knees, making me wonder how someone that tall could do this so gracefully. I took the waist-to-knee measurement without worries, and he clambered upright again. “How does it feel to make Loki kneel?”

I grinned. “If I had said that to him he would have choked me to death, Loki’s army or no.”

“So you are  _my_ fangirl,” he deduced. I stopped my scribbling. His voice sounded a lot less amused and a lot more satisfied now, and I wondered why. He knew he had legions of fans, and I guess I would be super glad to meet my fan too. Mentally shrugging, I took the next series of measurements–nape to floor, nape to waist, and shoulder to shoulder.

This time when the measuring could have become awkward, I didn’t let it. To measure the girth, I passed the tape end one hand to the other between his legs, and held them both ends at the shoulder. Getting on my tippy-toes, I got the reading, then slid the tape beneath his crotch again and back in my hand. I handled it very professionally, and I was proud even if I do say so myself.

“What is that?” Tom suddenly asked, pointing to the measurement sheet I was writing in.

“Sorry?” I looked back at him. “It is the sheet where I write all the measurements, Mr. Hiddleston.”

“Are we back to that again?” he groaned playfully. “I meant the symbols on top of the page.”

I looked. I had jotted down the character name, as was the norm, on top. But without realising, I had used the Elder Futhark. I answered as I knelt to take the thigh measurement. “Loki’s name. In Runic. Sorry.”

“Oh,” he said. Grabbing the sheet off the table, he studied the four symbols. “That’s how to write his name?”

“Yep,” I said, popping the  _p_. Then I took the calf measurement. “I am all done! May I have the page? I need to write the last two down.”

He obediently passed them back.

Alexandra hurried back into the house, still having an animated discussion on the phone. She made a beeline for the chair and said, then yelled, “Fuck you too!” into the phone before slamming it on the table. Both Tom and I winced. “All done?”

“Yeah,” I said as I showed her the sheet. “Just shoe and suit size left.”

I got sprung pretty quick after that. I spent my afternoon roaming around London, enjoying the sunshine and the last few hours of my freedom before pre-production schedules turned hectic. As I window-shopped my way home, I looked back at my meeting with Tom. After physically cringing at my fangirling a little, I realised what Tom had been doing the whole time.

He was trying to put me at ease.

He must have noticed how tense I was, and that was why he made so many jokes and got me comfortable. I felt a surge of gratitude for him, and took pleasure in the fact that I was going to work with such a nice, considerate man.

 

 


	2. First Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know nothing about filming and production, etc. I am making the internet help me, but in case you know more than me and find something weird in my fic, please tell me and I will change it. For now, the proper map of Village Roadshow Studios can be found [here](http://www.movieworldstudios.com.au/media/plans/VRS_site_location_plan.pdf). I am using this studio for principal photography because of rumors that it will be so. The costume department building can be seen [here](http://www.movieworldstudios.com.au/facilities-wardrobe-laundry.html).

My hotel room looked like an old disaster zone that had been lived in by a homeless guy, before the dog he had befriended got rabies and went completely berserk on the place. Hurriedly, I tried to control the damage, pitying the poor schmuck who would have to clean up after me.

That is what happens when you have to be up and at work early in the morning. I am not a morning person.

But nothing could dampen my day. I was here, in Australia. Ready to begin work as set costumer for the new Thor movie. And besides, most of the time I was going to stay in one of the smaller buildings on campus, where the costume department had been set up.

It was ridiculously early in the day, but I was used to odd hours by now. Yawning horribly, I made my way to the catering truck for breakfast. Everybody was to be in the costume department building by 6 AM. The actors were coming in at 7:30. Luckily enough, the catering was right across the street from the costume building, and I was able to get my breakfast sub to go.

Meandering back to the building, I looked at the empty (for now) space with a critical eye. Good wide, open space. The shelves on the back wall were useful–more so that drawers. The heights of the tables was perfect, and even though it might seem like a small thing, it wasn’t for the people who would have to spend hours bent on them. I remember a time the makeup artists had outright revolted because the chairs in the makeup trailer were too low.

“Hey, Faith!” I turned and smiled at Audrey. “God! Is there coffee? By all that is holy, is there coffee? The supplies are going to be coming in. I brought some of the stuff with me, the rest is in the trucks. Is it dawn yet?”

I grinned. My day had started.

It was mayhem in the place. Even though she had a desk at the end of the room, she hadn’t used it yet. Mannequins vied for space with humans, constantly losing the battle to misplaced elbows and knees, falling to the ground in defeat. Everyone talked over everyone else, the bells and whistles that they put in the costumes had been arranged on the shelves eight different times, and armour pieces poked people with increasing frequency.

Still, by the time Jaimie Alexander came in for her costume, everything was set and ready.

We worked on everybody else’s schedule. Once the actor came in, they went to makeup. Depending on when makeup ended, the actors came to us next. If we had any extras, we set them up while waiting for an actor, who always had priority.

Tom came in after Natalie Portman. A hush fell in the room as the door opened, everybody waiting to see who it was. As Tom stepped in, everybody heaved a sigh of relief. His costume had become second nature.

Before the door could close, Chris Hemsworth, Idris Elba and Tadanobu Asano came in too. Oh shit. I could feel the panic in the room. The stars looked at each other and smiled awkwardly.

“We could come back…” Chris said.

“Not necessary,” I said, as I rose from the desk I had sat down in eight seconds ago. “Audrey, you and William get Chris. Anna and Ben get Idris. Jason gets Tadanobu. I will take Tom. Whoever gets done before me helps me with him. Get on it!”

There was a mad scramble to the mannequins. I took Tom’s– Loki’s– leather trousers from the table and passed them to him, pointing him to the only ‘changing room’ we had. It was little more than a corner of the room we had blocked off with a large piece of cloth, right next to the stairs.

“Would you like to change your t-shirt, or keep it under the costume? Less scratchy that way.”

“It becomes too tight,” he replied as he moved to the ‘changing room’. “I will wear it, though.”

When he came back we started assembling his costume on him. First on was the cuirass, of course. I tried to help him wear it, but the man was so ridiculously long that I had to give up and just hand it to him. He slipped the piece of leather on with some difficulty, but we got it.

“Good morning, Faith.”

“Morning,” I said distractedly as I tried to shift the cuirass into place. “How was your trip?”

“Good, good,” he said. “Got here in the afternoon, ate dinner with Chris. It was fun. You lucky bastard.” He smiled fondly at Chris, who lived barely an hour out.

Chris just smiled. “So, you are Faith.”

I nodded as I grabbed the leather overcoat. “Yes, Mr. Hemsworth. It’s an honour to meet you.”

Chris grinned. “Chris only, please.” Then he turned to Tom. “You are right. She is polite.”

I blushed a little as I got up on my tippy toes to adjust the overcoat on Tom’s shoulders. Brushing the fake hair out of the way, I smoothed the well worn leather out. “He should just get a damn haircut and not boil you,” I muttered.

“Hey,” said Chris. “What about me? I boil too!” He mimicked his head blowing off.

“Yeah,” Tom retorted, smiling. “But you don’t actually have to wear the reindeer horns. Consider yourself lucky.” Then he turned to me, and the proffered vambrace. “Thank you, darling.”

I blushed and took one of his forearms in my own and wiggled the thing on. “Just doing my job. How are you enjoying the proximity to home, Mr. Hems–ah, sorry. Chris.”

“It’s wonderful,” he beamed. “Just wonderful. I can’t explain how important it is to me, being close to them.”

I smiled and reached to adjust the plackard. One of the most wonderful things we did was decide to attach the plackard and the cuirass. Not altogether out there, as it was very common in medieval armour, and gave us more practicality. And practicality was something in horrendously short supply. I turned and got the spaulder.

“You are going to need a stepladder to put that in place,” Chris joked.

Tom let out one embarrassed  _eheheheh_ , then reached out for the spaulder. His eyes were twinkling. “I can do it.”

“No, you can’t,” I responded. “Wait a minute.” I started to look around for a chair to stand on. Embarrassing as it may be, it was needed.

Until Tom kneeled.

Tom Hiddleston. On his  _knees_. In front of me.

Just like that, all my professionalism left me with a whoosh (might have been my breath escaping). I looked at him, dumbfounded, as he knelt with his head down. Looking like _Loki_. On his knees! I couldn’t breathe at all, and my chest felt all tight and panicky. My eyes were probably big as saucers.

Since I probably stood there like a statue for a century or so, Tom looked up, confusion on his face. And I started breathing again. Not in a ‘thank God I am finally behaving normal’ way. More in a ‘oh my Loki I can’t breathe, let’s hyperventilate’ way.

The tightness in my chest loosened with the slightly-over-the-top breaths, and I shook my head to clear it of filthy thoughts.  _Don’t go there. Don’t freak him out._

With deft fingers, I attached the spaulders, red in the face. He stood up suddenly when I finished, and I took an involuntary step back.

“Thanks,” he said, smiling broadly. “Sorry I surprised you.”

 _Surprised? Yeah, that’s one word for it._  “Boots.” He held out his hand for them, so I handed him the intricate boots, and he sat down in the chair to wear them. I knew it wasn’t going to be easy to put them on with the vambraces. “Are you done yet, Anna?”

That snapped all my coworkers out of their stupor. Anna jumped a bit. “Yes, yes, done.” She smiled a bit awkwardly at Idris, then scrambled to me.

We waited till Tom decided it was impossible, then rushed to help him at his sheepish grin.

“Sorry,” he said as we knelt at his feet.

“Don’t be,” I said, as I took his left foot into my lap. “We are helping you get into character, minn lofðungr.”

“What?”

“Faith has a habit of spouting random Norse,” Anna supplied with relish. “She uses that phrase a lot when talking to Loki.” At my glare, she shut up.

“What does it mean?”

“Nothing,” I mumbled as I attached the separate parts of the greaves to each other. “It’s sort of like a nickname for Loki. Too tight?” I asked as I pulled the resisting parts together.

“No, just right.” He wiggled his feet to test them. “Thank you, Faith, Anna.”

“Walk around some, see if it works as it should, Mr.Hiddle–sorry, Tom. I will get used to it.”

Tom smiled and got up, joining the parade of fully dressed Aesir in the room. After a few minutes of walking, and a mild adjustment to Tadanobu’s armor, we bid them goodbye.

The best thing about costuming is that once you fix everyone up at the start of the day, you don’t have to do it all over again. Just minor touch-ups and mending. The bad news is that touch up and mending occurs surprisingly often. An einherjar broke his helmet, Tom stepped on Chris’s cape by mistake and tore it some, among other things. We were on set, completely silent while filming, then running over brandishing lint rollers to buff up the stars. It was exhausting work. There were tired smiles from the makeup artists, who had a greater frequency of running about to do, and coffee. Lots and lots of free coffee for us, to prevent open revolt.

Tom finished for the day around 5 PM.

I watched him leave, the makeup guys already whipping out paraphernalia that would cancel out what they did all day. After a few more minutes, I quietly made my way back to the building. Tom was there, near the back, shrugging out of his overcoat. He saw me and smiled.

“Had a good day?” I asked as I stepped forward and draped the costume over his mannequin.

“Yeah,” he said. “Plus, we got off early. That’s good, because I am very hungry right now.” He grinned and groaned a little, holding his stomach. Dork.

My phone pinged. I ignored it. It wouldn’t do to take your eyes off the God of Mischief.

“Would you like me to go get you something from engineering while you change?”

He smiled at me as he continued undressing. “I couldn’t possibly ask you to do that.”

“Your fault you don’t have a PA. Why don’t you?” I helped him with the very unhelpful cuirass, and we both struggled with it a bit–me on my tippy toes. The damn thing was stuck to his chest with the dint of sweat and leather cohesiveness, but we got it off him. The t-shirt underneath was soaked. Damn. He wasn’t kidding in interviews. “You  _can_ take thing off, you know? I’ll find you something else to put on.”

“Oh, thank God!” He whipped the damn thing off, relieved. “I didn’t want to scare you, but that thing is  _killing_ me. It’s sticky. I thought you would find it inappropriate.”

I turned to find him something to wear, before the air-conditioning turned him into a block of frozen sweat. For a building assigned to costumes, there weren’t a lot of choices. “Ha! Nope, I am fine with it. Besides, I have seen you naked before, so it–” I stopped mid-sentence, realising what I had just said.  _Shit!_

“Have you been peeping into my trailer? Already? That’s fast work.”

When I turned with one of baggy t shirts Jason preferred, I saw his eyes were laughing. My face looked like I had a glowing light bulb in my mouth. It wasn’t just red, it was glowing neon red. I looked worse than Thor’s cape.

“Movies,” I mumbled. “Stuff, Freddie, Oakley, things. Adam.”

“You are adorable,” he laughed. “Thank you.” He took the proffered shirt.

The light bulb kicked up a few watts. Sighing, wanting myself to be professional, I sat down at his feet to take the boots off. The greaves were resisting too, they fit his calf so well. I wrestled with it. “Tell me if it hurts.”

“They always pinch when they go off,”Tom said. “My feet sweat through my socks. I apologize in advance for the upcoming ghastly smell.”

I nodded distractedly as I tried to get a grip on the inside of the boot. The trick was to slip your hand up from near the foot, inside the first layer of leather, and dislodge the fastening. I clearly needed help with this one, and cursed myself for leaving everybody else on set.

“Here,” Tom said. “Let me.” He leaned down to pinch the leather out of the way, and brushed my breast by mistake.

My  _breast_. Jesus fucking Christ.

Luckily enough, he didn’t notice the light brush. Thank God for small mercies. He was probably also colour-blind, which was the best thing that could happen to me, because my face was red again. Damn it.

We got both the boots off, working in tandem. Then he got up and changed out of his trousers behind the curtain, and that was that. All, done, I carried the armour pieces back to where they belonged, and slipped out behind him. “Tom, wait!”

He turned around, puzzled, as I ran across the street to the caterer, and got him a sub. “Hope you like chicken! It will tide you over till you get home.”

He looked stunned by the offering. “Thank you,” he said. “I owe you a meal.”

Then he walked back to the parking lot, leaving me to walk back to set.

It is interesting to watch pack up. As soon as the day’s work is done, and the director declares pack up, there is a deflating of sorts, where everyone let’s go of the bravado of the day and embraces the weariness. Instead of a permission to go home, pack up means a permission to acknowledge how tired you are. It reminds me a bit of how everybody looked at the end of the National Theatre Live production of Coriolanus. Tired, drained, and in search of their beds.

Still relatively comfortable in my sneakers, I made my back to pack up the building for the night. It was already surrounded by actors coming to drop off their costumes, and I slipped in too. Working on auto-pilot, we got all costume pieces, inventoried them, and shut down for the night. Since it was only 8 PM, a few of us suggested we go grab some drinks. Jetlagged as I was, I refused.

My super-comfortable pajamas welcomed me with open arms. Someone had cleaned up my bed amazingly, so that all I had to do was snuggle in. I grabbed my phone, and texted my friend Eva Mae back in London.

_**Me:**  Hey, wassup?_

_**Eva Mae:**  Trying to educate the masses, how abt u?_

_**Me:**  Snuggling up in bed, ready to catch some zzz’s_

_**Eva Mae:**  How was it?????_

_**Me:** He knelt for me_

_**Eva Mae:**  What???_

_**Me:** Cudn’t fix the spaulders_

_**Eva Mae:** That an euphemism?_

_**Me:** Nope. Gold shoulder thingy._

_**Eva Mae:**  I am so jealous of you._

_**Eva Mae:**  Who else did you see?_

_**Me:** Told Ken good work in Wallander. Saw Chris and Jaime too_

_**Eva Mae:** Bitch_

_**Eva Mae:**  Don’t forget my damn autographs_

_**Eva Mae:**  I will skin you_

_**Me:** Sure, Jim Moriarty_

_**Me:**  Sleepy_

_**Me:**  Gtg_

_**Eva Mae:**  Me 2. Boss coming_

_**Me:**  That old man can still walk?_

_**Eva Mae:** Of course_

_**Me:**  Ok, bye_

_**Eva Mae:**  Bye. ttyl_

I smiled at the thought of her livid face if I arrived back on British soil without an autograph for her. She may be small, but Eva Mae was scary as hell when crossed. I wouldn’t dare.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eva Mae is based on Tumblr author [writernotwaiting](writernotwaiting.tumblr.com), who I don’t know in real life and befriended last week, which means they share the same name and height. And boss. That’s it. Do not take it as an active portrayal of her.


	3. Of Broken Costumes and Awkwardness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since we are going to be dealing with Loki’s trousers today (O_O), here is a high definition photo of what I will be talking about:
> 
>  

I hate closed sets.

Here I am, sitting on the set of  one of the most anticipated superhero movies of all time, and I cannot even enter the building where they are shooting it. So I am left to go through all the costumes, the ones that are made and the ones that are not, nagging the accountants for a bit more money and threatening errant workers.

I  _hate_ it.

I mean, it is not as if someone is getting naked in there. No, it’s just that one of us might _blab_ the crucial plot points out into the blogosphere. Can’t have that!

“Faith!”

I turned around to see one of the ADs running towards me, his eyes stormy.  _Uh oh. When an AD looks troubled, shit’s about to happen._  He came to a stop in front of my desk, slammed his hand against it, and said, “You are needed.” I immediately started to move while he explained. “Tom’s costume ripped–or broke, the thing is more metal than not. It’s those things on his thigh… They were doing this pretty tame sequence, and one of the stunt guys got to excited and got too close with the sword–”

I stopped abruptly on my hurried way to Sound Stage 3. “Is he alright?”

“Yeah,  _he_ ’s fine. The things on his thigh though…” He trailed off, making a vague gesture by his outer thigh.

“Scales,” I supplied as we entered the live set. “We call them scales.”

It was a mess, like any production is. Most of the big sound stage was dark, though an area somewhere in the middle was brightly lit, green CGI drape looming in the background. There were cables everywhere, lying coiled in places, ready like snakes to trap you and cause you to fall. I maneouvered through them by keeping my eyes peeled, then looked around for familiar green and gold.

Tom was seated on a chair guzzling down a bottle of water. He smiled sheepishly at me as I approached, surveying the damage to the outside of the stretched thigh. The scales were intact, thank God, even though the fabric they had been attached to was ripped in a cut going from high on the inside of his right thigh to low on the outside. The double leather straps that went over that side were cut too.

I sighed and turned to Jason, who had followed me to the set. “The spare double strap belt, and my repair kit. Don’t forget the thimble, and add one of the super glue tubes in case something  _does_ decide to fall out.”

He hurried out without a word.

“Sorry,” Tom said softly. “I should have been more careful.”

I smiled and shook my head.  _This man!_ “Don’t apologise, Mr. Hiddleston. Happens all the time.”

Kenneth Branagh was hurrying up to me. “Can you replace it?”

 

“No sir,” I replied quickly. “Both the spare trousers are out of commision. We can hurry along the one that went to laundry, but still… I can fix this one in about ten-twenty minutes. It is the quickest way.”

“Twenty minutes?”

“Tops.”

“Does he need to get out and then back into the costume?”

We all knew how much precious time that would take. “Nope.”

“Okay, then.” He turned to watch Jason run up with the requested stuff, and said distractedly, “Thank you.” He hurried away.

I smiled at Tom as I started to kneel next to the plastic chair he sat in. “Bet I can do it in five.”

“Oh no, please, don’t kneel.” At my raised eyebrows, he colored up a bit. “It will be uncomfortable on the floor. Please, I will stand for you. Here, take my chair.”

I smiled at him as I sat and opened my kit on the floor. I had a moment of pure fangirl panicgasm as I realised that Tom Hiddleston’s tight black boxers were a foot from my face. I stared at that black cloth for a couple of seconds, wondering about the fact that I was going to touch Tom Hiddleston’s  _underwear_. Apparently he had no problems with that. Or with shoving his crotch in my face. I stifled an inappropriate giggle. “I hope Loki is fine. I have only seen bits of the script that are relevant to the department. Can you tell me who he is fighting?”

“No,” he said as he watched me thread a needle with twinkling eyes. “But I  _can_  tell you he is enormous and gold.”

“Everyone is in Asgard,” I said. When I touched his thigh, he jumped a bit. I smiled and went to work, trying to realign the pieces of leather and sew them together again.

“Yes, well, this one even has eyes of gold,” Tom said mischievously.

My hands stilled on the leather. I looked up into his eyes and saw that he wasn’t joking. _Shit, shit, SHIT!_  “H-Heimdall? He’s fighting Heimdall?”

Tom looked confused by my fearful expression. “Yes, he is. But don’t tell anyone I told you.”

I gulped. “I hope he survives. Please, God, let him survive.  _Please._ ” My hands started moving again, golden thread entering at uniform intervals and tying the gash together. None of the scales felt lose to the touch, and I was glad.

“Do you know a lot of Norse mythology, Faith?”

“Nope,” I said, raising my eyes for a second to make eye contact. “But I know almost every story of the poetic Edda with Loki in it. Prose too. The others? Not so much.”

“So you know all the weird stories. That’s why you are scared of Heimdall.”

“My whole Tumblr and Twitter family is. He is a threat we do _not_  take lightly.”

“You are on Twitter?”

“Everyone is, Mr. Hiddleston.”

“Right,” he  _eheheh_ ed awkwardly. “What’s your… uh, the name you use?”

“My username?” I looked up at him, looking down at me like a colossus. I thought briefly about my fanfiction and the direct posts from my Tumblr account to my Twitter one. “Not if you gave me a thousand hugs.”

He laughed again. “Why? It is a very sincere question. I am serious.”

“I am serious as a heart attack too. You do not want to see what a fangirl’s mind looks like. You think Loki’s mind is a bag full of cats? We are worse.  _Much_ worse.” Having appropriately warned him, I returned to the task at hand.

“So, can I be sneaky about it and find your Twitter, or will that be too forward of me?”

“He asks the woman who is so forward she knows the answer to boxers or briefs,” I said without thinking. Then I gave myself a mental slap for saying it, even as he laughed. “Sorry. I would much rather you didn’t.”

He just smiled.

I was almost done repatching the outermost edge of the torn material, so I focused on the part higher up on his thigh. With a sigh, I tried to calm my shaking fingers. He noticed. “Don’t worry, you won’t hurt me.” Someone came up to him and handed him a piece of paper to read. I guessed they were the lines he had to read.

 _Yeah, that’s the reason why I am shaking. Fear. You keep thinking that, you clueless baby._ “I am just going to do this bit here now. Please don’t move, or I might nick you.”

He nodded, and I slipped the index and middle fingers of my right hand between the leather and the soft cotton underneath. It was going to be tricky. With my left hand, I started to sew. The skin of his upper thighs was warm–he must be ridiculously hot in the costume–and  _hard_. I could feel the muscles beneath my fingers, the strength they exerted to keep him still. Runner’s legs. God, he had really beautiful legs. It also didn’t hurt his looks any that he has thighs as long as my entire leg.

The crisp smell of him, combined with the leather, was intoxicating. I leaned forward, unconsciously wanting to get closer. He smelled clean–soap and man–underneath the leather. When I realised I was taking a big sniff, I stopped and looked back up, wondering if he noticed.

He had.

The lines he was supposed to be memorizing were dangling from limp hands as he stared intensely at me, his blazing eyes leaving no question in my mind that he had noticed my sniffing him like a bitch in heat. I wanted to apologize, but suddenly I was too aware of how close we were, of how his hand was twitching right next to my shoulder, and how I was almost leaning into him. Scared by the intent way he looked at me, aroused by his licking of his lower lip, I shifted my torso back.

And nicked myself with the damn needle.

“Ah, fuck me,” I muttered furiously, immediately letting go of the needle and pressing my thumb into the injured finger. Above me, Tom deflated, going from sexy eye-fuck to bewildered panic in less than a second.

“Are you okay? Would you like me to call for a first-aid kit? I should–sorry. I–”

It was as far as he got before I started laughing. “Tom. Stop. I am fine, see?” I held up my finger. “It’s  _fine_. Take a deep breath.”

He laughed awkwardly. “You sure?”

“Yes,” I said as I looped a knot into the thread. “I am all done, too. There. Like it never happened.” I stroked the leather a couple of times, smoothing it out, checking for any non-conformity or uneven stitches in the pattern. His thigh twitched. I removed my hand and started packing up my things.

“I still owe you dinner,” he said suddenly.

“Pardon me?”

“Dinner,” he repeated. “I still owe you dinner for that sub you bought me.”

“Oh please,” I laughed. “You can buy me a sub any time you want. I am perpetually hungry.”

“Tell you what,” he said. “Chris just told me about a great little place that has great smoked eel. I was hoping to try it out. How about Saturday?”

“…Huh? You wanna take me out? To eat? Like, sit and eat?”  _Yeah, me? The ape making guttural noises at you?_  “You don’t have to, Mr. Hiddleston. I mean it.”

“I know I don’t  _have_ to,” he replied. “But I want to. Are you busy Saturday night?”

I thought briefly about my plans to eat a ton of ice-cream and rewatch OLLA. “Nope. None at all. And thank you. I would love to have dinner with you.”

“Then I should probably take your phone number.” As I dumbly passed over my phone, he continued. “I will pick you up around seven?”

I really needed to find a bathroom to scream hysterically in.

* * *

I was awoken from my sleep at 12:05 PM by my phone’s insistent chirping. I groped for it groggily, still half-asleep. There were incoming notifications from Twitter. A  _lot_ of them. Confused, I opened the app.

I sat up in bed, unable to make sense of 59 followers in the five minutes this day had lasted. Then it clicked.  _Tom._ He was following me. Tom was following  _me._ Oh fuck. Oh wow.

I opened his profile, knowing he must be online. And found the culprit.

Oh,  _fuck me!_  That little shit, he really did find my Twitter. Turning the notifications off, I lay down in bed, grinning.

Until I realised my Tumblr was connected to my Twitter. My fanfics… Hurrying to get my laptop, I began to look for a way to purge my account of any more than the normal amount of drooling people do over amazing actors. I stared at my account, paralyzed with the weight of the problem. I sighed. It was going to be a long night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I found this pic, where someone else is being almost as lucky as Faith in this fic.
> 
>  


	4. Of Smoked Eels and Adam’s Apples

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tom takes Faith out to dinner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Room 81](http://www.room81.com.au/) is an actual restaurant in Australia, and I took the [virtual tour](http://www.room81.com.au/broadbeach-restaurant-and-bar/virtual-tour.html). In truth, I have no idea which dishes are good, and the reviews were mixed. But since it is a good enough location for my story, and it provided me a virtual tour, let us assume it is amazing with excellent food, shall we? Yes? Since I am a research nerd, their Espresso Martini was found [here](http://www.room81.com.au/broadbeach-restaurant-and-bar/wine-and-cocktails.html). It looks tasty, at least.
> 
> Also, Faith wears the following outfit (all pictures taken from the internet):
> 
>   

* * *

I don’t shop much. My salary usually gets invested in my bank account, or into gifts for my nephew back home. Who would I dress for? Besides, I like comfortable clothes. Which means ordering stuff online.

But shopping for my dinner (not a date, no matter what Eva Mae said) with Tom was different. I was nervous, roaming around the streets of a foreign country looking for something to wear. I sorely missed Eva Mae, because I was crap at this.

Besides, it was too much pressure. As an Indian, I had grown up happily donning whatever socially acceptable and totally cool clothes my fashionable mother bought for me. When I was married, I received so many clothes as gifts I couldn’t go through all of them in the year the marriage lasted. Ever since then, I had gone on exactly zero dates. Been there, done that, not interested.

I was heavily unequipped to shop western formal dresses.

After two hours of looking at stuff at Ally’s Fashion, I was not just worried, I was sweating bullets. How great would it be, for me to go to dinner at a swanky restaurant in my sweatpants and a t-shirt? Oh god, I really needed a dress. I hadn’t packed any.

Just when I was ready to head back and search for a dress online, I saw it. Simple, but elegant, and the perfect color. It was a halterneck dress, green in color, the material soft to the touch. I sighed as I recognised chiffon. The sweetheart neckline worked well, and I hurriedly searched my own size.

I knew exactly what to pair it with.

* * *

I gave myself the fisheye in the mirror. Makeup usually makes me hyperventilate because I always think I am overdoing it, but I was determined to do it right. I hadn’t had an opportunity to dress up in a while, and now I had it. I had my beautiful dress, a very nice pair of heels I hadn’t imagined would be used in Australia, and I was going to take the time to shine up my mug, dammit. I didn’t have much time. Tom texted that he would meet me in the downstairs lobby in ten minutes. I sighed as I looked over at the eye makeup tutorial I was trying. My hand needed to stop shaking now.

The dress looked good on me, if I may say so myself. It brought out the green in my eyes, which were a weird combination of green and light brown. It also reminded me of my favorite Norse god, hence the color combination.

These shoes were the costliest I owned. I had seen them in a shop window in London, recalculated my savings in my head, brought out the credit card I owed the least on, and bought them. They were comfortable and fantastic, and I hadn’t regretted my impulse shopping one bit, even if I had to eat Top Ramen for most of the next week. The height the heels provided was important when I was having dinner with a beanpole.

Slipping my feet into them automatically made me feel confident and sexy. That was the point. I smiled at my green toenails peeking through, then finished dressing with the simple black earrings and black leather bracelet I had packed. A little touch-up of the coral lipstick, a final tug on the black scrunchie holding my hair together, and I was done.

Tom was in the lobby when I walked out of the lift. He heard the clicking of my heels and looked up instinctively. I noticed him notice my legs, then saw his gaze travel up and over to the top of my head. I felt like preening under his appreciative gaze. When I saw him grin, I wanted to dance.

He looked amazing. The jacket he was wearing with the collar up looked like the one he had worn to TIFF last year during the Tomcalypse. It was paired with a tight dark blue jeans and a light blue t shirt. I loved it.

“Wow,” he said, his eyes crinkling as he smiled. “You look amazing.”

“Right back at you,” I said. “I love it when you turn up the collar of your jacket.” As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I realized I had said it in a weird way, like we regularly met and socialized. We did, but usually, there was my laptop screen between us. But Tom didn’t seem to mind. His smile widened.

“Thank you. Shall we?” He held out his arm for me to take. His fingers were warm and dry, and I fervently wished mine wouldn’t suddenly decide to sweat. I shivered, though I wasn’t exactly cold, and hoped he hadn’t noticed.

My jaw dropped when I saw the Jag. “Wha–how…? Tom, we have literally been in Australia for three weeks. How is your car already here?”

He laughed as he escorted me to the passenger side door and opened it for me. “It’s a rental.”

“Renting companies keep Jags?”

“No,” he said. “But Jaguar let me have it. They said I am a walking advertisement.”

“You are,” I conceded as I settled in. Grinned as we peeled out of the parking lot of the hotel. “Where are we going?”

“There’s a place called Room 81 near the set, I thought we might check it out.” He smiled. “Chris said they have great smoked eel and lamb to die for.”

A companionable silence fell as I watched the trees zoom past. My phone chirped in my hand. It was  Eva Mae.

_Remember, don’t gobble stuff. Be elegant. And ask him to sign something for me._

“Everything okay?”

“Yeah,” I replied, smiling a bit. “Just my friend, Eva Mae. She’s been asking me to get your autograph for her.”

“Oh, right,” he said, eyes sliding towards me. “Certainly. Remind me later, will you?”

I nodded, and the conversation stalled for a bit.

“You have a very interesting Twitter account,” he noted.

The color left my face as I whipped it around to stare at him. “Are you being sarcastic?”

“No,” he laughed. “I liked it. I liked going through your tweets.”

“Then you haven’t gone far enough.”

“Here’s what I could see from your Twitter: You are a feminist, you like Shakespeare, though you think– and I agree– he should be performed and not read, you like Benedict Cumberbatch and his family, your ovaries explode a lot, and you like photos of my crotch.” He laughed when I groaned.

My face was red. I knew it was. “Mr. Hiddleston, the fandom is a place where we mostly poke fun at ourselves for being complete bonkers about someone who doesn’t know we exist. It is all meant in good, honest fun really. I apologise that you had to see so many pics of your crotch, but it was just–”

“Oh, wow, Faith calm down.” He wasn’t laughing anymore, though his eyes were. “I meant it as a joke. I can see the humour in it too… I got used to it. And to some of the memes. They were fun. Honestly. I liked the one where I have cat ears, apparently. Nothing creeped me out.”

“Yet.” I said, morosely. “And thanks to you, I am still getting tons of follows.” I picked at my bracelet absently. “Mr. Hiddleston?”

“Tom, darling. I  _am_ taking you out to dinner.”

 _Is this a date? Are we on a date?_ I stopped the question from simply popping out. How embarrassing! I sighed as we turned into a parking lot. “Never mind.”

“And here we are,” Tom said as he parked the car. “Hope you are hungry.”

“Starving,” I replied as he helped me out the door. I was pleasantly surprised when he did these things. No one had ever opened doors for me before.

Room 81 was beautiful. The hostess standing at the station to our right smiled as soon as we entered. “Table for two?”

As Tom explained he had a reservation, I looked around. The tables with their silver chairs gleamed beneath low, intimate gold lighting. As we started to follow the hostess left, we stepped onto the wooden floor, my heels clacking against it as I admired the pattern–a set of gold lines overlapping each other like the branches of a tree. We went down a short row of seated dinners towards a table at the end, next to the huge glass doors. She expertly plucked the ‘Reserved’ card off the table and indicated the table with a flourish.

“Thank you,” said Tom. He pulled out a chair for me.

“So Faith,” he said. “Tell me all about you.”

“Me?” I said nervously as I toyed with the hem of my dress. “You are more interesting.”

“I am not,” he said stubbornly. “You know a lot about me, though I barely know anything about you. I am very curious to know more.” We looked up as our server approached our table.

“Hello,” he said, giving Tom the wine list. “My name is Edward, and I will be your server this evening. Welcome to Room 81. Would you like something to drink?”

Tom raised an eyebrow at me. I don’t like alcohol, and I never have. It tastes disgusting and gives me a headache more often than not. “Do you happen to have anything that does not taste like alcohol but happens to be tasty instead?”

Edward smiled. “May I suggest our Espresso Martini, ma’am? It has chocolate, coffee, and sugar syrup mixed with the alcohol.”

“Yum.”

“A glass of your 2010 Cabernet Sauvignon please,” Tom said. When the waiter was gone, he turned to me again. “So, how has your life been until now, Faith?”

“Well, let’s see,” I smiled. “I was born in India, and lived the first 21 years of my life there. When I was 21, I finished my education and was hoping to go work for a computer software company. But then mom decided– you know arranged marriages are still the norm in India, right? Your sister lives there.”

Tom’s intense gaze zeroed in on me. “Yes, I do. So you got married?” His gaze shifted to my left hand.

“Yes,” I replied. “It lasted about three months before it started falling apart. It officially lasted around eight months.”

“How?”

Before I could say anything, Edward returned with our drinks. Once he had assured us he would be back to take our dinner orders in a minute, he left. I smiled at the brown, cherry-topped concoction that had arrived for me in a big martini glass. It looked tasty. I took a cautious sip–it was. The creamy, chocolatey flavour was wonderful. As I looked up, I saw Tom’s intense gaze was still on me.

“Why Tom,” I said mockingly. “This is hardly dinner conversation.”

Tom stared at me a while more. He seemed to reach the decision that he would not interfere, and leaned back in his chair, his face less intense. “No, it is not. Sorry. So you took classes in costume design after?”

I nodded. “Yeah. Three years of toiling, caught a lucky break right before I finished, and here I am!” I waved my hands about with a flourish. Then took another sip.

He finally looked away from me and focused his gaze on his glass. I focused on the menu Edward had left. My mind was working in overdrive, very much aware that the cost of eating at this restaurant was probably more than my shoes. I still looked over everything. I saw the smoked eel Chris had recommended, but finally decided to go for the salmon. When Edward came back, we ordered–salmon for me and smoked eel and saddle of lamb for Tom.

“Nothing to start, ma’am?”

“Oh no, thank you,” I said. “I want space for dessert.”

Once Edward was gone, I turned to Tom. “Tell me something.”

“Certainly.”

“Anything,” I clarified. “Something I don’t know about you. Something small and simple will do.”

Tom broke into a grin. “Well, let’s see. I like the movie Heat.”

I made a  _pfft_ sound. “Knew that.”

“Do you know how I like my tea?”

“Yep.”

“Do you know my favourite superhero?”

“Superman. Try harder.”

In response, Tom stretched, linking his fingers behind his head and cracking his knuckles like a pianist about to take the stage. We grinned at each other. “This is a good game. Do you know… that I am not wearing any pants?”

I gaped at him, my face still stretched into a smile of some sort. Then I blushed and looked away, smiling abashedly at his laugh. I clenched and unclenched my hands to stop my nervousness. “Really?” I peeked up at him.

He just smiled.

“That was hitting below the belt.”

“If you will pardon the pun.”

“Haha,” I said, then shut up when Edward brought our plates to the table. I dove right in, I hadn’t been kidding about my hunger. “My sister wanted me to tell you that she really likes you as Loki.”

“Oh,” he said, looking up from the small plate of smoked eels. “Is she a fan?”

“If you mean she is as crazy about you as I am, nope. She is a fully-functioning adult human with a job and an overactive baby, she doesn’t have time to sit and cry over the death of a singing cowboy who died in 1953. But she likes Loki.”

“Did you cry when Hank died?”

“Oh, I cried buckets!” A broad bean went flying as I stabbed it in his direction. “I started tearing up when he told Audrey he wouldn’t survive an year without her, and I didn’t stop until me and Eva Mae bought a pint of ice-cream and had a sleepover.”

Tom grinned. “Why, thank you.”

“You are most welcome. Would you like a sip of my drink? You have stared at it long enough, and there’s barely half left.”

“If you don’t mind,” he murmured. “It looks delightful.” He grabbed the glass in front of me, took a delicate sip, and then a deeper swallow. I watched his Adam’s Apple work, that long smooth line of his throat open and sinful. I noticed the way his elegant fingers were wrapped around the stem, and had to take a deep breath.

This was probably going to be the longest dinner of my life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter will contain the rest of the date in Tom’s POV. Let’s see what is going on in his head, huh?
> 
> The only dates I have been on have been with my husband, and there was no conversation. Hence, this chapter was very difficult to write, but I hope you like it. As a matter of clarification, I would like to point out that I love my husband, and my marriage is a good one. This divorce, and any and all related plot points are simply that–plot points, not inspired by real life. They are based on the fears I had before I was married, wondering how life will be.
> 
> In unrelated news, what would you like to see added into this conversation? I believe I stopped at a good enough length, and would like them to share their desserts. Other than that, what would you like to see?


	5. Of Beautiful Women and Inquiring Minds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The rest of the date from Tom's POV.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Note: The pronunciation of my real name can be found [here](http://forvo.com/search/aastha/).

Tom was surprised she didn’t know how fascinating she was.

He looked across the table at Faith, noting the colour in her cheeks and the way she crumpled her napkin without noticing. He knew she was nervous and unsettled, but he couldn’t stop staring at her. The more he stared, the more she blushed and fidgeted, and the more he liked this whole situation.

“So, how is your sister doing in Chennai? Sarah, I mean.”

He smiled. He was sure she had lots of facts about him all saved up, like those retweeted articles he had found on her profile that detailed how he liked his tea. “She is doing wonderfully well. Of course, it is immensely hot there this time of the year, and she was daydreaming about a trip to Alaska the last time I talked to her. Do you have any siblings?”

“I have a sister too,” she replied. “Her name’s Akansha.” When he frowned a bit, she stopped and repeated the word slowly, waiting to see if he got it. It was a very weird name. “It means a yearning, a wish.”

“What’s  _your_ real name?”

He saw the instinctive hesitation in her eyes, and saw her shrug it off. “Astha. It is an old Indian word that means faith, hence my English name.”

Tom tried the name. He saw her stare at him, saw her eyes on his mouth as he said it. He heard himself say it, then said it again, only better. “Astha. Hello. Pleased to meet you.”

She laughed and struck her hand out to shake his. He smiled and took it. It was warm and soft, and it shivered a little in his touch. “Cold?”

“No,” she replied, shaking her head. He let go.

The more they talked, the more he was convinced that this date had been a grand idea. Chris had looked at him like he had grown horns, but he had been sure he was going to have fun. He now knew something had happened in that too short marriage, something monumental. Indian marriages were sacred, socially bound till death, and very rarely broken in the worst of cases. He knew because Sarah had raged about a friend of hers who was in an abusive marriage–absurdly common in the country–and refused her help. She had ended up in the hospital.

He hoped Faith hadn’t.

The one thing he hadn’t expected was for her to be so passionate and animated when talking about something that interested her. And dear Lord, the things that interested her! She knew a lot of things, her brain full of interesting facts, some mundane and some extraordinary. But as soon as she started getting too excited, she would stop abruptly and calm herself down, apologizing for carrying on.

That part he didn’t like about her.

“Am I not getting too old for you to fawn over? All wrinkly and receding hairline?” He asked her, just interested in an impassioned answer.

“Says the man who once imitated Robert De Niro to his face and fidgeted next to him for an hour.” She took a big gulp of water and grinned. “But wrinkles are good. They’re lines of human wisdom painted with the brush of time.”

He liked that. “Those are good words.”

“They aren’t mine,” she said. “Bill said them.”

“Bill?”

“Hazeldine.  _Suburban Shootout_.”

He was getting used to her amazing brain a bit. Every character–be it from a book, play, movie or TV show–was a well-rounded person in there. She didn’t confuse him with them, or vice versa. He wondered for a while if all fangirls were like that. Wasn’t that what an actor wanted, in the end? For someone to forget them and see only the character they were embodying as a real person?

“Mr. Hiddleston?”

He had the urge to laugh out loud at her insistence in calling him that. He didn’t, and simply focused on his food as he made an encouraging sound.

“You were really good in  _War Horse_. Jim’s face at the end haunted me for a few days. It was the first time I took notice of you, and decided to enter the MCU. So… yeah, you were brilliant.”

He was a bit surprised. He had assumed that people had started liking him as Loki only, so this was a nice surprise. He thanked her and conversation continued.

“Tell me something about you now, Faith. We will talk about me later.”

She hesitated again–he could see it in her eyes. She couldn’t talk about herself. Then she shrugged. “I have a Bachelor’s Degree in Engineering.”

“Oh, really?” He leaned forward, interested. “So, engineering as in like–” he mimed building something with his hands– “or like, computers and stuff?”

She laughed. “As cool as it would be to be able to build robots, I am afraid my Bachelors is in Computer Science and Engineering. All I can build is a website.”

“I have been thinking about a website actually. For work. Luke says it is a concise way of getting correct information out there.”

“It sure is. And if you make it interactive instead of basic HTML, you can even answer fan questions and such.”

“Interactive?”

“Yeah, you know.” She waved her arms around. “A site built to specification. Where people can ask questions, and you could answer them if you like. There could be contingencies to make sure questions weren’t repeated, and they could even be segregated into different categories–personal life, current work, past work, upcoming work, etc. Then there could be a check that insured like one question a day. That way, you won’t have any traffic at all, but you would have a new question every day that you could answer.” She suddenly seemed to realise she had given an impassioned speech. Tucking her hands back under the table, she blushed. “If you want, that is,” she finished. “Sorry about that. I got excited. Plus, you have the Facebook page.”

He grinned at her. Did she know how pretty she looked when she was excited about something? “Is that doable? A question a day, no repeats?”

“Of course.”

He mulled over that for a while. Even though direct interaction with fans was booby trapped so much that he was scared of actually doing it, he was getting a new perspective on the  working of his fans’ minds. It seemed very doable, and Luke was going to chew his ass when he mentioned this to him. Oh well. He silently chewed his last bite while he decided how to convince Luke.

He looked back at Faith and noticed that she had actually finished her plate. It was a relief to actually have dinner with a woman who ate. She smiled at him. “Told you I was starving.”

“Dessert?”

She perked up like a child promised ice-cream. “Yes, please.” We looked at the menu again. “I certainly feel like Alice in Wonderland,” she said, referring to the dessert named that. “But I really like the idea of the Valrhona sphere. I think I am going to order that. What about you?”

“I am going with the rhubarb indulgence, I believe.”

Once they had ordered, they talked about food. She told him she could bake, and he told her about the one time he almost set his apartment on fire while trying to bake a cake for his sister. He had ended up searching bakery windows for one, and it had been snowing.

Their desserts looked utterly divine. Faith exclaimed when she saw the chocolate sphere headed for her, and Tom smiled at her enthusiasm. She was reluctant to break it up at first.

 

“But it’s a sphere!” Her hands were fluttering again. “An actual sphere,” she tilted her head this and that, wanting to see how it was constructed, no doubt. She ended up whacking the top of it lightly with her spoon. Hazelnut ice-cream oozed. The raspberry middle became visible. In comparison, his own plate of pink and purple ice cream looked only okay. He spared a brief thought about ordering a chocolate sphere for himself, reminded himself he was a grown-ass man, and quickly dug into his own dessert.

“This tastes amazing,” she said. “Would you like a taste?”

Like he was going to refuse something sweet. He nodded, and she scooped up a big spoonful, clearly intent on depositing it in his plate. He had something else in mind. Without moving either of his hands, he swooped down and took the spoonful in his mouth. She paused, her eyes wide, then smiled at him. “Tasty?”

It was like a great big party in his mouth–the combined taste of milk chocolate, raspberry and hazelnut almost made him moan. “Oh God, this is good.” He took a spoonful of his own ice-cream. “Not as good, but you should try it.”

And so they shared dessert. She enjoyed sweet things, she confided. Even though they were both stuffed to the gills by their entrees, they still polished off the desserts in record time. He let her have the last bite of chocolate–he was a gentleman after all.

And he reminded himself of that fact when she licked her spoon. He couldn’t for the life of him think of why a grown woman licking a spoon would be a tantalizing image, but it was. He watched, rapt, as her dainty little tongue slipped out and scooped chocolate up. His mind began to wander. Then she looked up at him. She must have seen something in his eyes, because she looked away and stopped licking.

“Would you like some coffee? More dessert?”

“No, thank you, Tom. I am stuffed. I believe I have pre-eaten tomorrow’s lunch. That was too much food for two people.” He nodded. “But if you want some coffee, or even something stronger…”

“Oh, no,” he said quickly. “Gods no. I was just asking. I am stuffed too. Would you like to go?”

She agreed and he asked for the check. She insisted for a second that she would like to pay, but he brought up his admittedly flimsy excuse of that one sub that one time, and she smiled and acquiesced. However, she did catch a glance of the total and winced.

Once outside, Tom took her hand again. He felt the shiver go through her again, and asked her once more if she was cold.

“Just a little bit,” she replied.

“Here,” he shrugged out of his jacket, and preened a bit on seeing the dazed look in her eye. He draped it around her shoulders, and adjusted the collar at her throat. “There. Better?”

She mumbled something in reply, then looked up at him. “Thank you, Tom. I am fine now.”

“Shall we, then?” He escorted her to their car. He had noted it before, the way she didn’t instinctively wait for him to open her door. He hurried along anyways, opening it for her before she did it, and revelled in her grateful smile. When was the last time someone had actually been grateful that he had opened the door for them? He hoped she got used to it in time, like his sisters had.

She looked adorable with his jacket on her shoulders, and even better once she slid her arms in. The sleeves were too long for her, and reached to her fingertips, and it was too big in the shoulders. Seeing his jacket protecting her from the cold, he felt a flash of primal satisfaction and then chided himself for thinking like that.

“That was amazing,” she said as we headed back to her hotel room. “Seriously yummy food.”

“I loved the drink you ordered. I am going to try and make something like that at home. It’s a good drink to show off with at Christmas.”

“Yeah,” she laughed. “Just don’t try to bake anything. You need to have a functioning kitchen in a house, and your baking puts it in jeopardy.”

“Oh, come on!” He protested. “It was that  _one_ time.”

“Can I sort of ask you a question about Adam?”

“Adam? From that movie I did?”

“Yes,” she said, meeting my eyes briefly as I drove. “I am sort of writing a novel–”

“What? Really? How come you didn’t tell me that before?”

“Woah! Calm down. I am still researching it. And it’s– I don’t know. I might write it, I might not.” She shrugged. “I only want a yes or no answer, and you can’t explain the reasons why. Do you remember enough of Adam?”

“Suicidal, moody, angsty, childish, music-loving artistic vampire?”

“That’s it. If he had a chance,” she said. “Would he take over the zombies? Control them, murder them–and not for food, but for power?”

I didn’t even have to think with that one. “No.”

“Good, thank you.” She seemed satisfied.

“So, is your novel about vampires?”

“Almost,” she said. “It’s about two warring factions of  _draugr_ –undead creatures from Norse mythology. And witches stuck in the war between them.”

“That sounds good,” he said encouragingly, hoping she would elaborate. She didn’t. In another minute, they were parking in her hotel parking lot. “I am insanely happy Australians drive on the right side of the road.”

She laughed, then stopped, confused, as he got out. She watched him walk to her door and open it. Once she was out of the car, he took her hand and led her to the entrance. Knowing she was getting nervous and fidgety, he decided to stop there, though he had originally intended to escort her to her room. “I had a wonderful time tonight.”

“Me too, Tom,” her cheeks were starting to flame at the intensity of his gaze, but she met his eyes. “Thank you for dinner.”

“And thank  _you_  for the company,” he said as he moved forward a bit. He leaned in to close the distance between them and with his cheek next to hers, whispered in her ear. “You are a very interesting person, Astha. And you look amazing too.” He leaned back and looked into her eyes. They were wide–she was frozen like a deer in headlights. But she wasn’t resisting. It was more like she was holding her breath.

So he swooped in and kissed her. His lips connected with hers and his hands found purchase on her waist. He loved the feel of her lips beneath his–the soft, slightly wet texture, the sudden gasp which brought with it the smell of raspberry and chocolate. She was intoxicating, but he still kept the kiss a short peck on her lips. He didn’t want to overwhelm her, or scare her off. He wanted her to think of him. Even though he had promised himself he wouldn’t linger, he did so, then finally let go.

Her eyes were closed. Her cheeks were flaming. Her lips were wet. She looked a vision. “Good night, Astha.”

She opened her eyes, a little dazed. He took some pride in being the one to do this to her. “Good night, Tom.”

When he drove out of the parking lot, he looked at her in the rearview mirror. She was standing with her gaze on his car, her fingers touching her lips. He smiled to himself.


	6. Of Overworked Departments and Coffee Breaks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **One of my readers linked me to an interview with the set costumer of Crimson Peak. She mentioned that Tom used to hang out with them, have tea sometimes, and destress. I am going off of that. She also talked about the amount of research that went into thinking up the costume, and how they talked about the ideas and put them together on an idea board. ******

I had a lot of trouble falling asleep. Every time I closed my eyes, Tom was kissing me again, and that made sleep impossible. I finally dropped off to sleep somewhere around 3 AM. I think my heart finally grew tired of thumping so hard.

I woke up cursing when my phone rang in the middle of the night. I checked the display on the phone, squinting at the too-bright screen. It took me a while, but then I understood, and sat bolt upright. Why was the set decorator calling me at 4 AM on a Sunday?

“The set had better be on fire, Bush.”

I heard John’s sigh on the other end. “Worse. They added a new scene.”

“ _What?_ ”

“Yeah,” he said, sounding haggard. “Just got an email from up top. You might want to get started on the work there.”

“I will just pull up the email, okay? Talk to you later.”

“Yeah.”

I opened my mail on the phone, saw the subject line  _Important Script Change_ , and opened it. Apparently, they had decided to add another scene with Loki in it, which shouldn’t be that much of a challenge. But then I read what he would be doing, and suddenly it made sense why the art department was going nuts. Loki was going to visit Frigga’s rooms and reminiscence. He was going to open her closet and look at her clothes.

Motherfucker.

 The wardrobe department looked like a war zone.

The tables were strewn with bits of fabric, random pieces of metal and jewellery adorning them. Laptops were everywhere, finding purchase where they could, multiple tabs of research opened and then forgotten. Gloves of different colors and materials were draped on different surfaces like dead soldiers. Ben was in the throes of a heated phone battle with the hair guys, trying to drill into their heads why they needed to help us with ideas for head gear. Coffee cups stood strongly all around–all empty– a momentary oasis of bliss in a world gone mad.

I glared at the idea board we had set up in front of my desk. How much gold and silver was I supposed to put in that bloody buggering shagging motherfucking closet anyway? And couldn’t it be a small closet? Did it have to be so huge? I mean, if I put any more gold in there, it could double up as a light source. I absent-mindedly took a note to tell John I needed shelves for shoes and jewellery and head stuff. Purple, I thought, focused on the crude designs on the board. Purple is royal(ish) and close enough to silver in my mind. We would try it out. Different shades of gold, until it is almost green. It could work. Inspired, I looked turned to my laptop to see if I could get high-definition pictures of all of Mia’s costumes from  _Crimson Peak._

The door opened and I nearly snarled. If they had changed the script again I was going to cheerfully murder them.

It was Tom, armed to the teeth with a tray of coffee cups.

“Is it safe to come in?” he asked Ben who was standing near the door.

“Nope,” Ben replied truthfully. “Mind your step, and don’t agitate anyone. More than they are, that is.”

Tom nodded. “I brought coffee,” he grinned at the room at large, then yelped when he got mobbed. He laughed as Audrey hugged him. “Okay, well, it’s just coffee.”

I remained seated. About half a day ago, this man had kissed me. It had felt nothing like the sloppy, teeth-jarring aggressive kisses my husband used to give me. It had been sweet and beautiful, and now I was sitting here in my most comfortable jeans and my Sherlock t-shirt. I felt like Cinderella after midnight. I racked my brains, trying to figure out whether or not I had combed my hair before I left.

Tom made his way towards me. “Two sugars, lots of milk. There you go.”

“How did you… the caterer told you.”

“Yes,” he said, sitting in the only other chair as the commotion around us renewed with added coffee jitters. “Good morning, Astha.”

I groaned. “Good morning, Tom. I mean, horrible morning, isn’t it?”

“Sorry,” he said, then smiled, taking in my face. I remembered I hadn’t put on any lipstick today. “For the record, it wasn’t my idea. Have you guys been working long?”

“I came in at 4:30 in the morning. Been working since, so… ” I consulted my watch. “Almost six hours now. All on an hour of sleep. Dammit! Ooooh, I could do some reds and greens in the accessories. Tokens from her children, or like, two-tone gray and silver for the armor-cum-bodice.” I took a healthy swig.

Tom smiled. “I see the coffee is helping. I am sorry you couldn’t get any more sleep. I did drop you off well before midnight.”

“Yeah, well, I couldn’t sleep.”

He grinned. I suddenly realised what I had just admitted. “No, I mean, I was thinking, and I couldn’t sleep because–because… Well, I just couldn’t sleep.”

His grin didn’t wane. “Well, what were you thinking?”

I didn’t answer and he laughed.

“Why are you here, Tom? Today is a Sunday.”

He shrugged. “Chris wanted to come out here and practice in the gym, and I said yes. Besides, I wanted to see you.” His eyes roved my face again. “You look beautiful.”

I snorted. “Yeah, right. Because zero makeup is the new hot look.”

He looked a bit affronted. “I really mean it, Faith. You look all worried and frowny and-and tired, and I happen to think you look cute.” He smiled. “Plus, you have smeared a little bit of Sharpie on your cheek. I think that is adorable.”

I lifted my hand and wiped at my cheek. My hand came away clean. Was he kidding? Tom laughed and leaned over the desk, cupping my chin with his warm fingers and wiping his thumb across the opposite cheek.  _Oh_. He let his thumb linger for a second, his eyes holding mine captive, then leaned back again. “There.”

I could still feel a tingling where his thumb had swiped.  _Jesus._

“Faith?”

I turned and looked at Ben. “What?”

“The hair guys say they will not research for you, but they will help with the actual conceptualization.”

“I found some samples of Nordic designs,” Audrey said. “The long runic ones you wanted. Men’s belts mostly, but–”

“That’s fine,” I interrupted. “Fuck that shit. We will redesign those. Did anyone send that costume I designed for Loki out to Acquisitions?”

“Yes,” Anna muttered. “The materials should be here. I added some brown leather too. In case we do decide to make that vest in the end.”

“It is fascinating to see you all work your asses off like this,” Tom commented. “Just fascinating. Doesn’t it ever bother you all this effort is only for a few minutes of screen time?”

I laughed. “These costumes are like our babies, Tom. Most of them are hand-crafted right here. Of course it bothers us to see them rolled in dirt, with fake blood all over, torn beyond hope, and then discarded. But we are here to help tell the story via clothing. It’s the job. Don’t you spend months making something with only a hundred minutes of screen time? Toiling in the gym for only a single fight scene? Building muscle memory?”

“Yeah,” Tom muttered. “What time are you guys going to go back home today?”

“It will be dark,” I predicted. “We are stuck here for the day. Maybe seven PM? Why?”

“No reason,” he said.

The door opened again and Chris Hemsworth walked in. He said a few hellos, then just stood there, towering over us all, looking around. His eyes settled on Tom, and he walked over. “Hello, Faith. Good morning.”

“Morning,” I said.

“Tom, the stuntmen have arrived. They are ready for you. You are supposed to be practicing your fight sequence, not bribing the costume department with coffee,” he grinned.

“Well,” Audrey said from where she was bent over a table, embroidering a bodice. “The costume department appreciates the crap out of the bribe. If any other actor wants to top Tom, they could bring us sandwiches.”

There was appreciative laughter all around. Tom and Chris left, off to practice battles.

It was nearly three in the afternoon before I got around to ingesting anything other than coffee. Sighing, I took my plate from catering, the smell and sight of hot food making my stomach growl. Opting out of going back inside to chow down, I decided to take my lunch to the lake. There were benches there, and my humble plate of spaghetti and meatballs begged to be eaten in a relaxing atmosphere.

The place was mostly deserted. Thank God. I had been surrounded by people since before the sun rose today, and the tranquility of the lake was just the perfect refresher needed. That was, of course, before I saw Tom sitting there too. Uh-oh.

I stood there, debating whether to take a few more steps forward and share the bench with him, or to veer off in either direction looking for another bench? Before I could actually decide, Tom had heard my footsteps and turned.

“Hey! Lunch?”

“Yeah,” I replied. “You?”

“I grabbed something from catering earlier. Come on, have a seat.” He patted the bench next to him invitingly. I shuffled forward and sat, placing my tray on my lap. “The meatballs are real good today.”

I nodded, trying hard not to stare at his lap. The man really did sit like a slut. His knees were spread so wide they were touching my thigh, and his arm was slung over the top of the bench. I was very aware of that arm. I began eating.

“So, did you figure out the costume colours you were worried about?”

I smiled. He wanted to talk shop? I could talk shop. “Yeah, I did. I am going with lots of shades of golds and silvers, of course, but I am going to be adding in a little splash of colour–red or green or something–to every piece. Kenneth and I will talk about this in–” I consulted my phone to check the time. “Half an hour.” I devoured a forkful of spaghetti and wished I had a Pepsi.

“I think that is a good idea. She was a beautiful, smart woman, obviously fashionable. Why should she only stick to two colours?”

“Right,” I stabbed my fork at him, then continued eating.

The wind kept blowing wisps of my hair out of their ponytail and into my mouth. I was holding my fork in one hand and keeping the tray together with the other hand, so I shook my head, hoping to get my locks out of my mouth. I was hungry, dammit, and I wanted to eat spaghetti, not hair. Tom laughed, seeing my dilemma. I am sure I looked like a cartoon with hair flying everywhere.

“Wait,” he said, chuckling. “I’ll help, if you don’t mind.”

I shook my head, thinking he was going to take the tray from me and allowing me to do up my hair. He didn’t. Instead, he stood up, went behind the bench, and gently grabbed hold of my ponytail. With one hand grasping the bulk of my hair, he slid the plain scrunchie out, and started to gather the hair whipping wildly around together in his fist.

I gulped and gripped the tray harder. Tom Hiddleston was fixing my ponytail.  _Damn._

His free hand slid down my temple, and he hooked a finger around the lock of hair I had been trying to blow out of my face. He gather it up, his finger burning a sensation up my face. I was very attuned to what he was currently doing, and I held my breath as he tied all the hair together in a soft, loose ponytail. “There,” he said, stroking the ends of my hair. “All done.”

“Thank you, Tom,” I squeaked, then cleared my throat.

“Why aren’t you eating?”

I looked down at the forgotten spaghetti and realised I had broken the little plastic fork because I had been holding it too tight. I picked up the extra one I had and stuffed my face with it. “No reason. Thanks for your help.”

He was still standing behind me. I wanted to turn, to keep him in my sights, but I didn’t. I was very aware of how close he was–how close his crotch was to my head. I didn’t want to face him this way, it would be more awkward.

“I still have your jacket,” I said instead, trying to break the tension I could feel in the air. “I didn’t know you would be here today, so I didn’t bring it. I will bring it tomorrow.”

He leaned in, his mouth next to my ear. The hairs at the back of my neck stood up, but I resolutely kept my eyes looking forward. When he spoke, his breath was on my face. “Keep it. I like you in it.”

I swallowed. Did he purposely modulate the tone of his voice or did it go that gravelly by itself? “Yeah, okay.”

“We both need to leave now, Faith. But I will see you tomorrow.” I nodded. “Goodnight.”

Before I could gather enough wits to say it back, he was gone.

When I reached my hotel that night, the desk had a message waiting for me. There was a vase of flowers delivered that afternoon for me. I looked at the purple Irises, elegant and cute, and smiled for the first time in hours. Ignoring my tired feet, I insisted I would take them to my room myself, and then gazed at them like a sap in the lift. It was the first time in my life that anyone had gifted me flowers. Once I was in my room, I twirled with them in my arms for a second before realising that I must look utterly ridiculous. I saw the note, squealed, and tugged it out.

_Dear Faith,_

_I just wanted to tell you I had an amazing time last night, and I hope we can do it again soon. You are very witty and entertaining company._

_You had a tiring day today, so I hope these flowers made you smile. Now why don’t you take a bath and get to bed? I will see you tomorrow._

_Love,_

_Tom._

Later, I googled and found out that the Iris stands for faith, hope, as well as courage and admiration. I danced a bit more.

 

 

 


	7. Of movies and kisses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tom's fitting turns into a movie night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Notes: After twenty minutes of searching online, I finally found a trailer that seems like something Tom might like to have. You can tour this trailer in 3D [here](http://www.starwaggons.com/inventory-items/three-slide-luxurious-43ft-5th-wheel-tsm/). The reason why it has a bed in it is simple: I never know when I might decide he needs to get naughty in there. As for the first ‘shirt’ thing he tried on, [this](https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/736x/e7/fd/5b/e7fd5bc6e11b81dc3167009806f3616b.jpg) deviantart image of Bragi was the inspiration.
> 
> To see how tall Tom looks with Faith, you are going to have to use your imagination, along with [this](http://es.web.img2.acsta.net/r_640_600/b_1_d6d6d6/pictures/210/527/21052723_20131024171739113.jpg) photo of Tom and Natalie. Natalie is wearing heels, so detract like three more inches for her. And remember, Tom is 6’2”, Natalie is 5’3” and Faith is 5’4”. Hope that’s clear.
> 
> And yes, I know I link a lot of pictures. It is only because I love you.

I knocked on Tom’s trailer door, shifting the weight of the clothes to my other arm. Damn, they were heavy. I would pity Tom, who had to wear these outrageously heavy clothes, but I knew the muscles that hid underneath his clothes. He was going to be alright.

“Faith,” he beamed as he opened the door. He reached out and hugged me, bundle of clothes and all. Not even a half-arsed, one arm hug. It was a proper hug, his hands sliding under my open arms and locking between my shoulder-blades. It barely lasted ten seconds, but I felt my heart rate increase. He smelled of soap and shampoo.  _Really good_ soap and shampoo. “Come on in, please! I was just changing out of the day’s costume,” he said, as if in apology for the simple skinny black jeans and white t-shirt he wore. He needn’t have apologized. He smelled goooood.

“I am almost outta here myself,” I confided. “Last fitting for the day.”

“Here, let me take those,” he said, kindly taking the pile of clothing from my arms and placing it on the sofa next to the door. Then he moved back to invite me in.

I looked around the trailer when I got in. We were standing in the living space, between the white leather sofa, and the kitchen space–complete with a microwave and a stovetop. The TV at my own hotel was smaller than the one facing the sofa. There was a desk, and further along I could see a shampooing station, which meant he had his own makeup area. Behind me, I guessed, were the bathrooms. When I turned, I saw that not only did he have bathrooms, he also had a bedroom in here. Holy wow.

“I gotta get myself one of these,” I remarked as Tom motioned to the couch, silently asking me to sit.

He smiled. “Yes, these are quite nice, aren’t they? Would you like some tea? Coffee?”

I grinned and wondered if his mum was proud of her baby boy’s manners. “Just some water maybe, please.”

He turned to the refrigerator and got out two bottles of water. I stood up in the meantime, sorting through the garment bags.

“Straight to business then?”

“I’d rather get it out of the way and end my day. We have all been working our asses off since Sunday, and it’s like, this week is never going to end.” I huffed in irritation.

“It’s Wednesday.”

“Exactly,” I said, stabbing my finger at him. “That’s a problem. I need it to be Friday already.” I took a big chug out of my bottle, then started unzipping one of the three outfits we had been asked to make for him.

“Oh, this is nice,” he said as he ran his hand over the green surcoat we had made for him. “This is amazing. Is this the same one you were hounding Ken about?”

“Nope, wasn’t hounding,” I corrected. “Wanted his approval, but stuck to my guns. I want the damn cape back.”

“Hmm,” Tom replied, his hands still roving over the golden gilding at the armhole. “Wasn’t this supposed to be a jacket?”

“It turned into a surcoat/shirt thing in the middle of construction. Looks better that way, and look– I got my open collar!” I pointed to the deep V-neck, with the black leather laces to be tied over his torso.

When I turned to him, expecting him to be excited, I noticed he was taking off his t-shirt. I hastily looked away. I could  _feel_ him smirk at my embarrassment. Bastard. Luckily enough, I had seen a standard white vest in there.

I took the surcoat, bunching it up to the neck and holding it out like a mother putting a t-shirt on her child. Problem was, this child was a foot taller than me. He had to stoop to fit his neck in the neck hole, which he did. Then we adjusted the arms. I told him to move his arms and shoulders, test it out.

“Comfortable? Any pinching?”

“Umm… No, not really.”

“What? What is it?” I squinted at him. It seemed to fit perfectly perfectly. Weirdly enough, it was going well with his skinny jeans. I made a mental note.

“I don’t want to be any trouble, it’s fine.” He winced when I glared. “It’s just… This,” he said, plucking at the embroidery on the arm holes. “It itches and chafes. But there’s nothing you can do about it, and it looks good. Sorry.”

I looked at the golden edging, then slid two fingers between his shoulder and the edging. Huh. I could certainly have black leather sewn into the underside of all that gold wire. It could not be comfortable to wear. He was right.

“How come Chris gets snuggies and I get the smart clothes?”

“Because… I don’t know. Probably because of us,” I said as I got closer to him and started to loop the leather laces around the round gold buttons we had stitched into the collar, around the v-neck.

“Us?” His hands came to my waist and I gasped. I couldn’t help it. I forced myself to relax and answer his question.

“Oh, sorry, I meant the fangirls. Maybe. I have no clue. My personal headcanon there is that Thor is at home, so he can dress like an ass. Like we all do when we are home. Even if Loki had a home, it sure as fuck ain’t Asgard. You don’t dress comfortable unless you _are_ comfortable.” Tom hmmed. “Maybe he will dress in Snuggies if we ever have a Sigyn.” I plucked at the final leather strap and took a step back. “Okay, all done! Would you like to walk around? Give it a whirl?”

Tom did, and I scrutinized his every move as he obediently took a couple of rounds of his trailer. It looked good on him. I motioned for him to stop after a while.

“Happy? Other than the pinching,” I said. He nodded, and we moved on. It took me about a half-hour to get Tom to model all the things I had, and I was definitely happy with the way everything fit him. I took a note to compliment Audrey on her work on the collars. They were brilliantly made.

“So, what are you doing later today?”

I looked up at Tom from where I was packing everything back. “What? Oh, um, it’s Wednesday, so… Agents of SHIELD. A new episode is on tonight. Take-out and TV. You?”

“I was actually hoping you would spend some time with me. Maybe watch a movie or something,” he confessed. “But that’s okay. You have a show to catch. Short notice. Sorry.”

Even as my heart started pounding, I smiled at him. “I can catch the episode later, so thank you for your offer. I am knackered today, Tom. I can’t get ready and go out to a theatre today. I just want to get my comfortable pyjama shorts on and relax. But seriously, thanks. Can I take a rain check?”

Tom blushed, and my heart stuttered. “I wasn’t… Never mind.”

“No,” I said as I moved the costume bags aside. “Tell me. What is it?”

“I thought maybe we could catch a movie here,” he said in a rush. “Like, just get some popcorn and put in a DVD.”

I was speechless for a second.  _Oh._  “Oh, sorry–I thought–”

“No, I should have explained–”

“I really thought you meant–”

“It’s just Chris is working for a few more hours, and I wanted to kill some time, so I–”

“No, I get that–”

“It’s no worries, darling, we can do it later sometime, and it gives us more time to choose a movie–”

“Or we could watch it now.” That halted our little back and forth. “What do you say? I will just run back and put the costumes where they belong, and we could watch a movie tonight.”

“Yeah, sure,” he said. “I have tons of DVDs… And a pack of microwave popcorn.”

“Cinephile,” I teased, gathering up all the costumes. He just grinned. “Give me about twenty minutes. I must officially sign off for the day.”

“Sure,” he came over and opened the door for me, and I somehow maneuvered out of there. “Faith?” When I turned around he pecked my cheek. “I’ll be waiting. With popcorn. Hurry back.”

 _What the hell was going on? How did someone navigate through a relationship? What do you do once you know the other person is interested in you? There had to be a self-help book out there._ “Um. Yeah. Right. Going.”

Once I had the notes and the costumes all arranged correctly, I looked at myself in the mirror. I looked exactly like someone looks after slaving away at a design table all day. The ponytail I had started with in the morning had lost the battle of holding my hair together, and wisps of my dark hair were just sticking out in a random fashion. My kohl was smudged, and my lipstick had disappeared hours ago. I looked at myself, aghast. Tom wanted to watch a movie with this? A simple girl with almost no makeup in a skinny jeans and a simple red button down?

Where the fuck is my damn purse?

* * *

“Yeah, come on in!” Tom yelled through the door when I knocked. He was holding a gigantic bowl of popcorn. “Yay! Popcorn!” He  _ehehehehe_ d at me.

“Yay! Fat and calories!” I relented when he pouted. “Okay, okay. I love popcorn too. Yay! So. What are we watching?”

Tom moved to set the bowl of popcorn on the table next to the couch. He motioned to a box of DVDs next to the TV. “Just pick any one. Whichever you like.”

I moved to the box, curious. What sort of movies does Tom Hiddleston have in his DVD collection? Answer: any type at all. “Holy shitfest, Hiddleston.”

There were movies of every genre. There was  _Zoolander_ and  _Austin Powers_ , _Transformers_ and the  _Jungle Book_. I grinned when I saw the copy of  _Heat_. There was _Jurassic Park_ and  _Star Wars_ ,  _Star Trek_  and  _Shrek_.

Tom laughed behind me. “Yeah, too many, I know.”

“Ooooh Adam! Can we watch Adam, please? It’s been ages since I saw him and I have meaning to rewatch him and I really–Can we watch  _Avengers_? Oh look you the Hobbits here! Seriously? Can we watch those? Oh, oh,  _How to Train Your Dragon_! Thomas! No, not Thomas. I will bawl my eyes out again. I don’t see Hank, but not him either. I don’t wanna watch any of the dead ones. So no Smaug too. No, but I wanna watch  _Thor_! But there’s  _Silver Linings Playbook_ –”

“Need some help deciding?” Tom was right behind me. I could feel him, and I froze like a complete idiot, my breath stuttering and dying in my lungs. “Or do you just want to keep reciting all the stuff I have?”

“I… Uh, I don’t know,” I said stupidly. “I mean, yeah, sure. Absolutely. Please help. That’s what I meant, actually…” I trailed off, actually glad that words had stopped pouring out of my mouth.

“Tell you what,” Tom said, his hand closing over mine from behind as I gripped the box as if my life depended on it. “Why don’t you close your eyes and pick one?”

I exhaled, realizing I was holding my breath. Holy fuck the man was sex on a stick. Why was he breathing down  _my_ neck? Why not someone else?

“Go ahead,” he said. “Give it a try.”

I took a deep breath, shoved my hand into the sea of movies, and pulled out a DVD. “ _Mr and Mrs Smith_. Wanna watch this?”

“Sure,” he said. “Let’s watch it. Thanks for spending time with me, by the way,” he started loading the DVD into the player.

I settled into the couch. “Don’t be ridiculous, Tom. I love hanging out with you.”

“Just hanging out? What about kissing me?”

I blushed and shut up. He laughed. “Okay, sorry. I am sorry, that wasn’t very nice. But I must admit, I love making you blush.”

“I love it when  _you_ blush,” I retorted like a petulant child.

He laughed adorably as he came and sat down next to me. His knees opened–the slut–and his arm went behind me on the back of the sofa again. I was getting used to sitting with Tom Hiddleston. “I am a grown man. I don’t blush.”

I grinned even as Angelina Jolie woke up onscreen. I slid my eyes to his. “I have pictures. And gifs. And videos.” When he groaned, I laughed. “Aww, blushing is  _amazing_ , if you think about it. Your own body can call your bluff.” He looked at me weirdly. He didn’t remember his own words.

Then he took out the glasses of doom. They were on the makeup counter and he leaned over, picked them up and put them on. I licked my lip without thinking. The temperature in the trailer seemed to increase suddenly. I kept my mouth firmly shut as I stared at him. Damn them glasses!

We focused on the movie after that, even though both of us had watched it before. I was still very aware of Tom’s hand next to my shoulder, very aware that I had chosen quite a sexy movie. About ten minutes into the movie, he was already toying with the end of my ponytail. I glanced at him from the corner of my eye, and he looked completely engrossed. I settled back into the sofa and relaxed, absolutely certain this was one of his twitchy moves that had nothing to do with me.

“Popcorn?” Tom asked, lifting the bowl from his lap and offering it to me. I took some.

Tom laughed out loud in some places, and I giggled when Brangelina sat down to dinner after they knew. Sometime later, I put my feet up on the couch underneath me, without thinking, and took the scrunchie out of my hair. I shook it all out. Damn, that felt good after a day of mild headaches.

This new position, with my legs folded under me, made me turn a bit towards Tom. I noticed he was no longer looking at the movie, but at me.

I gulped.

Tom looked… He looked  _hot_. His hand was in the bowl of popcorn, but his eyes were on me, and there was something in his eyes that made want to run and stopped me like a deer in headlights at the same time. He simply reached forward and tucked a lock of hair behind my ear for me, then looked forward again.

We paused the movie when I needed to pee, and he took out some Pepsi for me while I tried to  _not_ knock my elbows around in the closet-sized bathroom. I was very happy that the shower was separate. Damn, Tom must have bruised elbows. When I came back, Tom had Pepsi and a beer ready. His glasses were on the table in front of us. I ignored my disappointment.

“Your hair looks very beautiful when it is down,” he told me. “Why don’t you wear it like that more?”

“I… I don’t know. I am not–” I took a deep breath. I thought about the reason I always kept my hair tied, even though it made my head hurt at the end of the day. “My husband didn’t like it,” I said softly. “My ex-husband. It’s stupid. It’s an unconscious decision now, but… Sorry.”

He was silent for a second. “I like your hair down and around your face,” he said finally. “You look very beautiful.” His eyebrows snapped together when I snorted. “I mean it.”

“Sure,” I said, pulling out more fat and calories to stuff my face with. “I am Helen of Troy.” I made the mistake of actually looking at him after I said it, and the look on his face told me he wasn’t kidding. “Oh, wow, really?”

He leaned towards me, his face only a few inches from mine. “Yes. You are really adorable, and you don’t even try. You are talented, smart and funny, and hilariously in love with the work I have done. I like you. I like spending time with you. Deal with it.”

His voice had gone all deep and Loki while he was talking. My mouth was open, and I was breathing through it. There was absolutely no thought in my head at all. “I-I-I-um. I don’t-I… Thank you.”

“And right now,” Tom continued as he smiled suddenly. “I very much want to kiss you.”

Silence. There was white noise in my head. Also, my heartbeat. My skin started tingling.

“May I?” Tom slid his hand on my cheek, his thumb on my cheek and his fingers in my hair.

And just like that, my thought process came back online. And my brain was screaming one instruction at me repeatedly:  _Do not puke on him. Do not puke on him. Do not puke on him. Do NOT puke on him._

I dumbly nodded yes, my eyes moving from his stunning ones to his lips. I saw them move towards me in slow motion, I saw him stop at the last second, giving me time to back out. I smiled at him, though I think I might have looked constipated.

And then he kissed me. I felt his lips on mine, so soft, so hesitant… And I sighed. He didn’t open his mouth at all, just gave me sweet kisses from pursed lips, and once I had melted into them, I felt him open his mouth. My skin was on fire now, like adrenalin running through my body, every sense steeped in Tom. All I could feel was Tom’s lips and hand, all I could think was Tom. I vaguely spared a thought that it wasn’t possible to be so lost in a man through a simple close-mouthed kiss. Then I gave that thought the finger and closed my eyes.

I opened my mouth too, and felt him hum in response. His hand went further into my hair, and his other hand went to my waist. He kissed me open-mouthed then, gentle and sweet as his tongue slipped out and brushed against my lower lip. I squirmed a little, because that felt  _divine_. Oh dear  _Lord_ that man had a sinful mouth. His tongue slipped into my mouth, took a little gander, searching out my own tongue. When he found it, he sucked on it. I moaned without thinking, and shifted in his arms. I tried to copy him, but my brain was so fried I was drunk on him kiss. I dipped my tongue in his mouth, tasting butter and salt, and little his upper lip from the inside, catching it between my lip and tongue. I sucked it into my mouth, and he gasped into my mouth. His hand on my waist tightened.

By the time he released me, I was almost falling into his lap. My heart was hammering in my chest, and ears were buzzing. My skin was electrified. I felt like a cliche Harlequinn heroine.  _Damn_. I felt drunk on his kisses.

Tom looked… sexy. I don’t know how else to explain it. He still had his hands on me, and his thumb had started stroking my face. I leaned into the touch, my eyes glued to his. His eyes were hooded, and his mouth… As I looked, his tongue poked out and licked his bottom lip. Without conscious thought, I mirrored his action and watched with bated breath as his eyes zoomed in on my wet lips.

He leaned forward and bit my lip.

I made a weird  _mmmm_ sound as he backed away. It took me three tries to make another sound, and one more to mold it into something intelligible. “Wow.”

“That’s what I was going for.” How beautiful he looked, grinning his Chesire Cat grin. His eyebrows slammed together again, though his face kept smiling. “My  _what_ grin?”

Mortified I had said that out loud, I slapped my hands on my mouth. “Sorry. Nothing.”

“ _Chesire_ Cat?” he said, laughing.

I pushed him away with both hands on his shoulder. He was still laughing. I joined in.

We laughed a lot more as we finished the movie. I got another kiss after, and floated back to my hotel.

* * *

That night Tom had difficulty sleeping. He was thinking of how much fun he had that evening, of the beautiful woman he had spent that evening with, and of her sweet kisses and quick smiles.

Tom wanted to find her idiot of a husband and punch him in the nuts.

He was against violence, he really was. But the way that Faith talked about her life sometimes, about her marriage… He knew there had been something wrong in that relationship. And the fact that it had been her only one made him madder.

How could she think she was not beautiful? Granted, she wouldn’t be gracing the covers of hot magazines, but damn, she had the most honest eyes he had ever seen. She was cute, and beautiful to him.

He had noticed how she never talked about her parents. He knew they were alive, she had mentioned that, but the only person she talked about from her past was her sister. The one with the weird name. She went on and on about her and her husband. He was dying to find out why her parents never got the same treatment.

What had that asshole of a man done to convince such a special woman she was anything but? How far did it go, her absolute belief that she was nothing eye-catching?

He respected her all the more as he realized she had made her life nevertheless.

After all, he thought she was pretty darn special. And he wouldn’t rest till she knew that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Note: So… Yeah. That happened. Also, I wanted to explain something here for future reference. I am Indian, and we don’t take the name of elders–this includes brothers and sisters. Like people in the west call their parents Mummy and Daddy (or variations thereupon), we call our elder sisters Didi. This was a PSA to better understand the beginning of the next chapter.
> 
> About the next chapter… I have currently finished writing a first chapter of a Loki/Sigyn fanfiction, and have a mind to write at least 2 or 3 other first chapters. I am sorry, I know. I know. But my muse is on steroids right now, and so I will just write whatever new stories come to mind, lest my mind gets clogged by them. Trust me, that is how my writer’s block happens. So, next Friday, there will be 2 or first chapters of new fanfics to read, and then we will come back to this fic. Or to the Henry Plantagenet is Mine series. So, yeah… No update for this fic next week. Sorry!


	8. Of nightmares and drunk-dialing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Note: A little more personal information about me– I freak out a lot. Events, as soon as they get out of my comfort zone, become scary. It doesn’t matter what the new thing is… I piss my pants every time my husband talks about inviting his friend over to dinner, I freak out every time I have to go to a party and talk to strangers, I freak out every time there is something to freak out about. Since Faith is, well, me with a shitty husband, I guess you can see where this is going. It might feel strange to you, but it is just a part of her personality to freak out. Any time I can’t see the road ahead of me–the plan, the future, what will happen–I freak out spectacularly. So will Faith. She is like that.

_The soft yellow glow that illuminated the room kept flickering dangerously, as though a strong gust of wind would blow the whole illusion away. I could discern no immediate source of light, but then again, I wasn’t looking really closely. Tom was the center of all my attention, tall and imposing at the foot of my bed.  
_

_He smiled at me, honest, open, and anticipating._

_“You think you can please him?”_

_I whipped my head around, facing the shadows at the corners of the room. He stood there, all in black, his sneer glinting white against the dark. My husband._

_“You think he will like you? Jabbering all the time about things no normal person thinks of, demanding and whiny… How can he like you?”_

_I looked towards Tom, bewildered, worried what he might think of me. “It’s not true,” I said. “That’s not who I am.”_

_“Then who are you?” said Tom, his voice curious. He still hadn’t looked at Rajiv, and I didn’t want him to._

_“I–” I looked back at Rajiv. “I don’t know.”_

_“I do,” Rajiv said. He moved closer to my bed, leaving the shadows behind. “You are a broken, self-righteous cunt who left her husband because you wouldn’t compromise on anything. Any healthy relationship is based on compromise, and you can’t have healthy relationships, because you are a freak.”_

_“I am not!”  I wanted to launch myself at him, to shut him up, to stop Tom from hearing the truth about me. I wanted Rajiv to leave. Instead, I whimpered and sank back into the headboard. When Tom bent down to catch my ankle, I squealed and shrugged him off. “I am not broken!”_

_“What do you think a man wants from his woman, you freak?” Rajiv taunted as Tom and I gazed intensely at each other. “All men want what is between your legs,” he said as Tom grasped my ankle again. “And as soon as he sees you freeze like the ice queen you are, he will leave.”_

_“No,” I said stubbornly. “Tom won’t leave me like that.” Tom smiled at me, his hands sliding up from my ankles, his eyes open and encouraging._

_“He will leave,” said Rajiv. “Men stay when women know how to keep them.”_

_Tom yanked me towards himself, hard._

I woke up in a pool of my own sweat, the scream trapped in my throat and my arms flailing. I didn’t go back to sleep.

Maybe I was avoiding Tom, just a little. It wasn’t because of the dream, no matter what Didi said. It was because I realized there were so many things people expect in their relationships from their partners that I was not going to be able to provide. I was all wrong for him.

What was I going to do once the kissing and the cuddling wasn’t enough for him? When he wanted more, as he rightfully should? What would happen the next time we happened to watch a movie together and I started sobbing in the middle? He needed to know I would do things like that. That  I would embarrass him in front of his friends by launching into passionate speeches about fictional characters. He needed to know I didn’t like to– Well, he didn’t even know what he was getting into… He deserved to know.

But I couldn’t grow a pair of balls and just tell him.

Oh, no. I had to _agonize_ over it, practicing my words in my head as if I were Mark Anthony and the fate of an empire rested on my speech. I struggled with the feeling, knowing deep down inside what I was actually doing: procrastinating like a boss.

I didn’t want to disrupt the momentum we had. I didn’t want him to stop hugging me when he came into the wardrobe building every morning, or the fleeting way he touched me just a smidge more than he normally would. I didn’t want him to stop laughing so charmingly at the way I curse, or to stop looking so engrossed when I explained something to him. I just didn’t want his behaviour to change any.

So I shut up and went about my day as if I wasn’t in the middle of a psychological crisis.

* * *

She was avoiding him.

Tom could tell that Faith was preoccupied. She had been guarded all day, her attention elsewhere. He could practically see her turmoil in her panicky eyes. It didn’t make sense to him at all. He thought back to the night they had watched the movie, to some subtle signal from her he had missed… But he came up with nothing. She had been fine yesterday, so what was wrong today?

He had wanted to go out for drinks with her, just go out and celebrate a normal Friday night, but he was hesitant to ask now. She seemed to be… weirdly distant. She hadn’t said more than a handful of words this morning, and she hadn’t texted him either. She hadn’t performed her daily ritual of asking him what he was filming that day and how he felt about it. They hadn’t _discussed_ anything. They had barely talked.

He had even tried to ask her if something was wrong. Her negative answer had been just a smidge late. That second’s delay in the answer was nagging at him.

He started a little when he heard the knock on his door. “Tom? Shot’s ready!”

“Coming,” he sighed.

* * *

You know what they say. If you can’t solve a dilemma, drink it away.

Okay, fine. No one says that. I said that. That’s because I am currently drinking yucky, overpriced alcohol in order to drown out said dilemma. I am drowning out the imaginary voice in my head too, the one that sounds a lot like my sister’s. _You are being stupid_ , it says. _There is no problem._

 _Yeah, well, there will be_ , I tell that voice in my head. _So shut up and go change your son’s nappy. And let me drink my adult people, tastes-like-piss alcohol._ “One more beer,” I yell to the Satan’s spawn managing the bar in this hellhole where the music’s so loud I can feel my ribcage vibrate. And don’t even get me started on the price of the damned beer. If it tastes like horse piss, shouldn’t _I_ be getting paid to drink it?

Taking my bottle of poison from the man in black, I hurried back to Audrey and Anna. Anna was on the dance floor. That woman sure knows how to party. Her hips haven’t stopped gyrating since we walked in, and here I can barely hobble in these infernal heels. Audrey threw me a wink as I came to stand next to her again, thumping the bottle of foul-tasting shit on the stamp-sized table we could find. We were currently protecting it with our lives, taking turns guarding it so the rest of us could move around.

“Do you wanna talk about it?” Audrey half-yelled and half-mimed in my direction. I made a confused face, so she elaborated by shrieking in my ear. “The thing that finally made you agree to come with us. And drink beer.”

“Hey!” I said, totally ignoring her question on purpose. “I did do that shot!”

“Puking it back up and into the glass in the same motion doesn’t count,” she laughed as I glared.

Drinking was good, though. Drinking was very good, in fact. I loved how being drunk made me feel. It started out as a light buzz, and the throbbing of the music stopped bothering me. The headache that had been brewing since afternoon more or less disappeared. Also, beer seems to be an acquired taste– the more I drank, the better I ultimately felt. Soon, I stopped bothering about things like hydration and hangovers and started focusing on the important stuff: how the pretty lights above the dance floor changed colour. Oh, they were so pretty…

Audrey and Anna were both dancing with two cute boys now, leaving me alone to fend off the offending wenches that wanted to crowd around our thumbnail-sized table. I didn’t like those wenches. Cunts, the lot of them. I glared spectacularly at one of the women who had the audacity to look gorgeous. I stared at her, trying to figure out how she managed to walk in heels while mine were off my feet and tucked under our table for the sake of my own sanity. Women like that were gods, I tell you.

Tom should be with a woman like that.

 _I bet she likes sex,_ I thought as I squinted at the woman until she disappeared on the dance floor. I bet she makes all those pornstar sounds. She asks for it. She knows how to flirt. She doesn’t make her husband look bad in front of others by being a nervous chatterbox…

Tom should totally be with a woman like her. I pulled out my phone, intent on telling him that. Balancing my bottle of beer and my phone both was hard, but I managed somehow. The screen was all blurry and it took me a couple of minutes to figure out how to work it. Then I realized no one would be able to hear a cannon go off in that place,let alone a teeny phone voice, so I wobbled outside. The table, hard won and vulnerable, was forgotten.

I almost slid to the pavement when I tried leaning against the building. The vibrations from the wall felt like the best massage ever, making me giggle. I burped, then froze as I realized I might barf. Jeez, I am the kind of chick who can’t even hold her liquor. I should tell Tom that.

I was seeing double by this point, but I was still fairly certain I had dialed the right number. While I waited for him to pick up, I tried to buckle up my heels.

“Hello?” Tom’s voice was all groggy and confused, bless him.

“Hey!” My voice, on the other hand, sounded not unlike the really loud music I had left inside. “Whatcha doin’ there?”

“Faith? Are you okay?”

“Mmmm,” I said, enjoying the deep rumble in his voice. He sounded like he was growling. “M thinkin ‘bout you. Hey, Tom.”

“Hey, Faith,” he replied. “Wait, are you–”

“I don’t like sex.”

There was total silence on the other end. I waited impatiently for him to say something, but I couldn’t even hear his breath. “Tom?” My lower lip poked out.

He took a breath. I could almost hear the wheels turning in his pretty little head. “Okay,” he said, dragging the first syllable out. “Faith? Where are–?”

“No,” I said, stabbing a finger in mid-air. “It’s not okay, don’t you see? I don’t like sex, but you do, I guess, coz like, everyone except me does, so you are gonna have to get some other woman just to have sex with. But that is gonna backfire soon coz I think I’ll kill her for touching you and then I’ll be in jail and you won’t even come to visit.” I took a deep breath at the end of my tirade.

“Faith, are you drunk, darling?” I had to think about that for a second. I _had_ drunk lots of beer, so I nodded morosely. “Faith?”

“Mmm?”

“Are you drunk?”

“Yeah,” I sighed, suddenly tired. “Guess so. Do you know any ice-cream joints nearby?”

“Could you tell me where you are?”

I rolled my eyes. “At the club, silly. I am right here. It’s called… Um, SinCity. Ha! But it’s funny, see? There’s no space.”

“Faith, sweetheart, listen now,” I could hear him moving around now. “Uh, is someone there? Are you with someone?”

“Anna and Audrey, but they’re inside. Why?” I snickered. “You worried, Dad?”

“How about I come get you, then we take you to your hotel room and eat ice-cream together? Would you like that? Would you like me to come get you?”

I laughed. “Yeah, sure,” I drew the word out. “You can come get me if you like. Are you gonna kiss me? I wanna be kissed, Tom. I miss kissing you. I like it.”

“Ah,” he said distractedly. I pouted. “Sure, yeah. I’ll kiss you. I like it too. Just stay right where you are, okay?”

“I am not going anywhere,” I told him in a sing-song voice. “I am just gonna sit here and wait for you, Tom, like a good girl. Can we have chocolate ice-cream?”

“Yes, sure,” he was starting to sound funny. Tired, I guess. I heard his GPS tell him to take a right. “We will get you chocolate ice-cream.”

“Hey! Maybe that thing I drank that one time when you took me to dinner! I want that!” When he hissed, I realized I was shrieking in his ear.

“Whoa!” he said. “You are not drinking anymore, young lady.”

I snorted. “Yeah, you didn’t sound a thousand there.”

“I mean it, though. Why are you drunk?” I shrugged. “Faith? Are you there? I am at SinCity, where are you?”

“Out here by the gutter,” I told him, patting the spot next to me. In the next second, I heard him hang up.

Strong arms scooped me up before I could call him again. “There you are,” said Tom as he turned me around and hugged me. His chin was on my head, and I smiled when I smelled him. “My little drunk Faith.”

“I am not little,” I retorted. “You are just super-tall.” I sniffled. “Hello.”

“Hello,” he smiled down at me, bed head all a-fluff, and I smiled back. We started walking in a random direction, Tom’s arm slung around my shoulder. He was more or less responsible for steadying us.

“You look like the prettiest person in the world when you smile, Tom. Can we go now? Anna is supposed to drive us, but it’s loud in there, and plus, _Jag_! Hey!” I stopped walking abruptly as I saw him frown. “No, no, don’t do that. Why are you sad? It’s all good! You gotta–” I tried to rub the frown away. “Damn, you’re too tall. Ooh, look, the Jag.”

Tom led me to the door and opened it for me. “Come on, love, let’s take you home. Would you like to text Anna and tell her I have you? Or maybe call her so I can talk to her?”

It took me most of the car ride back to my hotel room to manage that. I was coming to grips with the fact that I was a lightweight when it came to drinking, coz I was drunk right now. Like, really drunk. I couldn’t see the phone screen properly anymore.

I merrily chatted away with Anna while Tom parked, then sort of melted onto his sturdy shoulder when we got in the elevator. “Tom?”

“Mmm?” He was still trying to keep me from falling to the floor. He was my big, muscly man, and I don’t think it’s sexist to acknowledge that.

“I am drunk, right?”

Tom laughed. “You drunk-dialed me in the middle of the night, darling. I think that’s a yes.”

“You sound nice,” I sighed against his t-shirt. “You sound all rumbly when you are sleepy. Or trying to intimidate. But you’re not Loki. You are my sleepy Tom…” I trailed off and focused on walking when the elevator pinged.

Tom rescued me from the hopeless task of trying to fit the little rectangular key in the slot. His pretty, pretty hands did that for me, and he helped me inside. “There we go, sweetheart,” he said. “You had a big adventure today. Let’s sleep it off.”

He sat me down on the bed, and took my chin in his hand as he knelt. “We’ll talk, okay? Later.” I nodded, and he smiled. Then he started to unbuckle my heels. He made me scoot over on the bed once my feet were free of their prison, and he tucked me in. He kissed my forehead, like mom used to do. And then he was at the door, leaving.

“I meant it,” I said. “I don’t like sex.”

“And I meant it when I said we will discuss it when you are sober,” he replied. Before I could pout, he winked at me. I sighed. “Good night, Faith.”

“Good night, Tom.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Embarrassing, yes, but completely necessary to start a very important discussion. She will be red in the face, but she will finally tell him about her marriage, and that is important before they get all hot and heavy and the sexy times begin.


	9. Of life stories and healing hugs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quite a lot will be revealed in this week’s chapter, so I just want to make something clear again. This is fiction, which means that this is not how my life is. The reason I love the abusive background trope is because it gives complexity to my characters, as well as explains why someone who was born and brought up a certain way is now in a very uncharacteristic situation. If all was well in her life, she would be married with babies by now, and would never have found herself in this exciting situation. So, she has an all-fictional abusive background.
> 
> The t-shirt I am wearing in this chapter is an actual t-shirt I designed that you can buy here. It is also available on mugs and cases and other things.
> 
> A little angsty in this chapter, folks!

 

My hangover was nothing like I had seen on TV. My head hurt, of course, and no amount of coffee could cure it. I didn’t feel like eating, and my eyes burned–I had to squint when I opened them.

But I had no desire to sit on the couch and groan. Or puke.

In many ways, I would have liked to have a full-blown hangover. I wanted the amnesia that comes with it. But, no, of course I didn’t get it. Instead, I got the really clear memory of stupidly calling Tom in the middle of the night, of hanging limply off his arm, of… Well, of making a complete and utter arse of myself, basically. So yeah, I just wanted to sit on the couch and groan anyways. If I had a couch in this infernal hotel room. 

I spent the day with Netflix and bad eating choices, trying very hard not to think about what I had actually revealed to Tom. I told him I don’t like sex. _Jesus_.

 _Maybe he forgot about it_ , I thought as I stuffed my face with Cheetos. Then I rolled my eyes. That is certainly not something to forget, is it? I am an idiot. Well, I will just have to explain to him that just because I don’t like it doesn’t mean I won’t do it, yeah? I mean… Well, I just royally fucked up.

I wonder if they are ever going to make a device that will filter people’s thoughts for them. Like, you could just program it in, and the device would shut your gob for you if you were about to embarrass yourself. That thing would sell for thousands of millions, and I would be first in line.

Tom checked in a couple of hours later, telling me he would be there around seven, and reminding me to hydrate. In response, I finished another can of pepsi. He was worried about me, I could tell. I was worried about what I was going to say to him. I decided to numb my brain with a documentary before I completely blew my top worrying about it.

It is surprising how quickly the day can pass once you turn off the TV and get in bed with some good fanfiction. I read till four in the afternoon, demolished a bag of popcorn from my emergency midnight stash for lunch, and slept for a solid two hours.

By the time I got up and took my shower, my mind was fairly analytical of the problem: There was a problem with me, and Tom _had_ needed to know it. Now, the situation that he found out in was not the most ideal one out there, but it got the ball rolling, didn’t it? Now I didn’t have to agonize over the issue. So, yay, I guess. Or Hail Mary. Whichever.

 

“What toppings do you like on your pizza?”

I frowned at that. “You eat pizza?”

Tom laughed on the other end of the phone. “Yeah, of course I do. What do you like on yours?”

“Uh,” I said, thinking. “Let’s see… Green peppers, red onions, peruvian cherry peppers, and jalapenos. Oh, and light on the cheese.”

“Got it. What’s your favourite cold drink?”

“My, my, Mr. Hiddleston. Are you trying to charm me?” When he answered in the affirmative, I told him to get me some Pepsi. He told me he would be there in about fifteen minutes.

I tried to look over the room with a critical eye. Everything was tidied up (I had stuffed all my clutter in the closet), and I didn’t look that bad. I had shaved the jungle that generally disguises as my legs, and I was wearing my favourite denim shorts. My t-shirt said “You’re Sherlock Holmes, wear the damn hat.” A touch of kohl and lip gloss, and I was ready.

That meant I spend the next twelve minutes wringing my hands and basically chewing my lower lip off. I alternated between thinking I it wasn’t too bad and physically flinching at the memory of what I did. By the time Tom arrived, I was a nervous wreck.

Even though I knew he was going to be there soon, I still jumped when he knocked. My heart started pounding as I unlatched the door.

“Hi,” I said, hoping the smile on my face looked somewhat natural.

“Hey, darling,” said the tall Brit behind the pizza boxes. “I brought pizza. And ice-cream” He leaned over and kissed me on the cheek.

“Yummy,” I replied. “Come on in, pizza man.” I trailed behind Tom as he walked to my desk and put the two pizza boxes down. “How was your day?” I stuck the ice-cream–a pint each of chocolate and vanilla– in the fridge.

“Fine,” he said. “I went to visit Chris again. They keep insisting I come live with them, and I keep telling them I am fine at the hotel. How are you?” He perched on the foot of my bed while I sat in the chair.

“Sober,” I said, sighing. “I really am sorry for the stupid-ass phone call.”

“I know,” said Tom in a matter-of-fact voice. “Don’t be. Let’s have some pizza.”

I nodded, still unsure and awkward, but Tom took charge. He went into my bathroom to get one of the towels, laid it down on the bed and spread out both boxes. The smell that wafted from the boxes after he lifted the lid was enough to propel me from my chair to the bed.

So there we sat, cross-legged on opposite sides of the bed, sniffing pizza and guzzling Pepsi out of cans. I knew why he was here. I knew he was worried about me. And I knew he wanted to talk about last night. But he didn’t. Instead, he talked about his day, about the inane things he did– playing with Chris’s daughter, whose new mission in life was to break his glasses, went for a run in the afternoon, and got drenched in his own sweat because it was too hot, almost wore his ipod to the shower…

I smiled and laughed, recognizing and appreciating his attempts to make me feel better. Then, when there was a lull in the conversation, I grew serious. I had to get this off my chest, but I had no clue how. “Tom?”

He looked up at me from his extra-cheese pizza. “Yeah?”

“I…” I trailed off, not knowing how to say this. “I would like… I know you have questions, Tom. Can you ask them? I would like to– to tell you things. But I have no idea where to start.”

“Okay,” he said, his eyes fixed on mine. “Are you sure, though? Would you like to finish eating?”

“No, um, it’s okay. I want it over and done with.”

“You don’t owe me an explanation or the story of your past, you know.”

“I know,” I said, putting down the slice that had suddenly started tasting like rubber. “But I want to tell you.”

“Were you abused by your husband, Faith?”

I took a deep breath. “Yes and no. It was mostly emotional. I left him when it got physical.”

“Emotional abuse can be just as scarring,” he observed, his eyes fixed on mine. He wasn’t eating.

“I… You know, living in India, in the small cities? It’s like living in nineteenth century England.” I said. “I used to joke with my sister about this. Once you are a teenager, you can’t show your legs in public. You can _never_ be seen talking to a boy, or people will talk. You cannot go out with girlfriends a lot, because everyone knows what sort of character those girls have,” I had to stop and take a sip of Pepsi to wash the bitterness out of my voice. “It’s a maddening world with many rules, but it always felt natural. I mean, I was born in a society like that, so I grew into it.

“That is why marriage becomes weird. You are suddenly supposed to talk, interact, _live_ with a man, and it’s… chaotic and new. And there’s also the big word in the marriage: compromise. Everything becomes about how to compromise, how to work your way around your husband’s personality, because that can’t be changed. That’s just your luck, your destiny, whatever. I don’t know. I used to ask my mum before my wedding what I should do if he was abusive. I knew she wouldn’t be around–I was going to marry a US citizen. She always said I could come back home. I believed her.”

I broke off when I realized I had finished my pizza and needed to wash my hands. Once I had cleaned up and put the boxes on the tiny hotel fridge, I returned to where Tom was still looking at me like I was the only person in the world who mattered. It’s a potent look. It strengthened me so I finally talked about my marriage specifically instead of giving him a cultural lesson.

“It started when I realized that his standards for housework were a lot higher than mine. Nothing I did could be good enough, and he would get moody and angry if there was anything dirty. In the beginning, I was doing dishes for the first time in my life, I was so slow at it that it took me all day to actually finish all the housework. He was still grumpy most of the time. There was always something I didn’t do. He kept telling me things to do, ways to behave, what to do when we go out… Lots of things. I was stupid enough to go along with all these new rules.

“The first time he got really angry, I was scared. He threw an empty bottle at my head,” I continued, and saw Tom tense up. I wasn’t looking at him anymore, I was talking to the fingers I kept twisting in my lap. “I mean, it never hit me. But it was close. He said some truly horrible things too. He said later that he hadn’t thrown it _at_ me, but just thrown it because he was angry. He said it was my fault for making him angry.” I laughed without humour. “A classic abuse line, I knew that even then.”

“Did you tell anyone?” Tom’s voice was tense and gravelly.

It was hard to keep the bitterness out of my laugh. “Yeah. That led to an hour-long lesson in how not to make your husband angry. And then I was told how I should avoid ‘letting things get out of hand’ by being the smart person and calming The Man down.” I looked up at him then. “I knew that was not the way it should be. But I still hoped I could live with it. It’s the classic tale of abuse, really.”

Tom leaned forward and grabbed my fingers. “Would you mind if I hold your hands as you tell me this?”

“Hmm?” I was thinking about how pretty his hands were. They looked strange next to mine. “Yes, sure. It’s almost over anyways. It’s degrading, you know, that loss of yourself as you bend completely to another person’s will. You never notice it, until one day you turn back and cannot remember the person you used to be. You do everything you are told, hoping against hope you don’t have to deal with that anger again. You learn to pick up clues, to read your next move in another person’s body language.”

“What happened next?”

“He got angry again,” I said. “A few days later, I wasn’t feeling that well, and so I didn’t clean up as well as I usually do. He was very angry when he came home.” I still remembered his face, contorted in rage that felt so disproportionate to me, compared my crime. “Such a small thing, the lack of neatness in a house. We had no guests coming home, nothing of the sort. But still, he was so angry, and I remember yelling at him to leave me alone, to let me rest…”

“He didn’t listen, did he?” Tom leaned forward, and I realized I had been whispering as if ashamed. His eyes were trying to catch my downcast ones.

“He hit me with one of the dirty pans in the sink.”

Tom hissed as he jerked back, as if I had physically hit him with my words. I felt my own tears start to build up behind my eyes again as I remembered how stunned I had been, not because he had hit me too hard, but because I hadn’t really believed till that moment that he would hit me at all. I watched one of my tears fall on Tom’s hand where it was intertwined with mine in my lap.

“It wasn’t that hard, but it was a metaphorical slap in the face,” I said. “I looked at him like we were both new people suddenly, I remember that. I had justified my meek and submissive behaviour till then, rationalizing in my head that the path of least resistance was the path for me. That all I had t do was be a good wife and he would love me. Platitudes to my feminist side, maybe.

“But I knew then that I couldn’t continue to live with a man who not only made me miserable and unhappy, but also hit me. If he was hitting me in privacy today, he was going to do it in public tomorrow. I couldn’t live with a man like that, always afraid of the future, always afraid of my next beating. I just… I don’t know how to explain that feeling I got.”

Tom was tearing up too. I saw the tears gather near his eyes, surprised and touched that he would feel that much for me. His hands flexed a little on my own, and he gripped them hard. “You don’t have to,” he said.

I shook my head stubbornly. “I just… I don’t think I ever loved him. But I still hoped for a future where I would. In that moment, after he hit me, I just… I let go. I didn’t _hate_ him, he was… He wasn’t important anymore.”

Tom smiled through his gathering tears. “That is very mature.”

I laughed. “It was a reaction to his treatment of me, really. I mean, here I am bending over backwards for you, listening to you complain about how you keep me fed and clothed and I am not at all grateful, and you _dare_ to hit me? Really? Fuck you, you– Ah, well, that is what I thought then anyway.”

“So you went back home? Filed for divorce?”

“I called my Mom,” I said. “I was so sure she would be indignant and would totally rip him a new one… I _knew_ it, because she had always said she would skin our husbands alive if they hit us. Me and my sister, I mean.”

“She didn’t do that, did she?”

“Some,” I replied. “She did yell at him a bit. Mostly she just told me that if I dwindled in my duties there would obviously be consequences. It wasn’t that big a breach of trust that we had to end the marriage right here. I could handle it.”

I could hear Tom’s teeth grinding together. I smiled when I recognized he was scandalized on my account. “That’s just nuts.”

“Not really,” I said. “Trust me, ‘divorced’ is a big taboo word where I come from. It is one of the worst things that can happen to a married woman. Mom was just trying to explain how I was over-reacting, that the implications of a divorce on my social life would suck ass.”

Tom scoffed at that. “So you were supposed to live with a man who hit you?”

I shrugged. “He had apologized, in his way. I didn’t listen to anyone, though. I guilted my husband into sending me home to India. My sister argued with my Mom. She didn’t want me to have to deal with him anymore.”

“But your mom wanted you to go back?”

“She didn’t want me to be divorced. She wanted me to stay with her for a few weeks, teach him my importance through the distance, and then she wanted me to go back. I didn’t. Staying in my childhood room, I couldn’t help but remember what wonderful dreams I had about my own future… How I had always thought my life was going to be. I wanted to be free again.”

Tom hooked a finger under my chin, lifting it to make me look at him. “You are a very strong person, you know that?”

I blushed and smiled awkwardly, then ducked my head back down. “Glad you think so,” I said to my knees. “My sister thought so too. She helped me run away.”

“You ran away?”

“Yeah,” I said, knuckling away the last of my tears. “I asked my best friend–a lawyer–to work on my divorce papers. Didi helped me financially, and I just left home. I didn’t know what else to do. Mom had already booked a flight, and I did _not_ want to go back to my husband like a whipped dog, so I just did a Loki and let go.”

“Did a Loki?”

I laughed, feeling the dried tears on my cheeks stretch as the skin moved. “Yeah, that’s what Didi calls it. You know, at the end of the movie, he just let go of Gungnir? It was like that.”

I fell silent, vaguely wishing I had sat down with a water bottle. Tom didn’t speak either. I thought about those first few chaotic days, living with my sister, discouraging my brother-in-law from punching my husband, playing dart with his photo on the board (Didi’s idea), and watching the divorce proceedings go through.

“Shatakshi was foaming at the mouth during the proceedings,” I remembered out loud. Seeing his confused face, I elaborated. “My best friend, the lawyer. She got me a pretty large settlement, and very quick too. I wasn’t expecting that much, I hadn’t had that much physical abuse.”

Tom smiled at that too. “They tried to bribe her to drop the case,” I said. “She took the money, transferred it all to me, then went ahead with the case anyways. Who were they going to complain to?”

“And is that how you studied fashion?”

“Yes,” I said, nodding enthusiastically. “I invested well, went back to college, even went to Comic Con once. And the rest, as they say, is history.”

In the face of my giddy grin, Tom’s expression was sober. He ducked his head closer to mine, making sure we were at the same level. “I am very proud of you, you know.”

And just like that, I started crying again. “Ah, dammit! I have kohl in my eyes now!”

Tom started laughing. He hugged me, clumsily helping me get the runaway kohl out of my eyes, and he completely botched it. We sat there, me almost in his lap, for a while.

“Faith?”

“Hmm?”

“Why don’t you like sex?”

I sat up so that I could look at him properly. “What’s to like? It’s messy and it hurts. Why should anyone like it?”

“Orgasms? Endorphins?”

“I got a hand for all that.”

Tom didn’t say anything at all. He just nodded.

Then he burst out laughing once I realized I had basically told him I masturbated and turned bright red. I swatted at him with both hands. In order to save himself from my frantic flapping, Tom got up and got the ice-cream out of the fridge.

We invested a good hour into demolishing a pint each. It was a good end to the night.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a tough chapter to write. I hope you like it.


	10. Of Work and Food

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A lighter chapter after the wild emotional ride of the last one.

I am going to murder the supplier.

I mean it. She has messed with my order for the last fucking time. I didn’t attack her when she sent the wrong shade of red over for the new Thor cape. I kept mum when she fucked up the amount of gold chiffon we needed. But seriously, I am going to kill her this time.

I clutch the absurd silver _wool_ in my arms and try to calm down.

I mean, seriously… Who looks at a veritable sea of tinsel and chiffon and silk and say, “Yup, this order for golden wool makes complete sense”? She sent me a fucking woolen _comforter_.

I will make it look like an accident.

Everyone is walking on eggshells around me right now. They know we have to finish Natalie’s dress in the next two days, and I have fucking wool on hand to work with. Tom’s costumes have come back from being altered, they need to be tested as soon as he is done on set. I still have to work on new footwear for him and Chris, before next week. Nobody is looking me in the eye, but I can feel their eyes on me.

“Get the bitch on the phone,” I said to Anna. “Tell her to find me a supplier nearby willing to sell me the silver silk we need. Tonight. If she says it’s impossible, tell her I will shove my boot so far up her ass, she will be puking leather for a week.”

Anna nodded and disappeared. My phone signaled an incoming text. It was Tom.

I took a deep breath. It will be fine. No need to stress.

I got a sense of deja vu when I walked up the steps to Tom’s trailer, my arms full of costumes. Shrugging off the delightful memory of a few days ago, I focused on the work at hand. He answered my knock promptly. He was towel-drying his hair.

“Hey there, darling,” he said, tossing the towel on the couch. “Here, let me get those for you.” He took the heap of bags from my arms and set them aside on the couch. “Come on in.”

“Thanks,” I said.

He had obviously showered again, just getting back from the set. He was done for the day. He was wearing a simple pair of gym shorts and a blue t-shirt I was sure I had seen before somewhere. I tried not to stare at his exposed calves as he went back into the bathroom to hang the towel.

“Please, take a seat, won’t you?” He said as I stood there like an idiot.

My overworked brain couldn’t quite remember where I had seen that t-shirt. But I like it. In fact, I love it on him. I might even have tweeted that. Where… _Oh_. “Coriolanus.”

“Sorry?” Tom had been wrestling with one of the bags to make space for me to sit.

I shook my head. “No, sorry. I was thinking… Something. It’s been a long day. My thoughts are rambling.”

He left the bags alone and came to sit next to me on the couch. “Want to talk about it?”

“Not really,” I said, sighing. “The supplier fucked up my order again, is all. I hate that we have to scramble now because of her.”

“You could ask for a change in the schedule,” he said as he stood up and moved to his fridge.

I shook my head. “I doubt it will be necessary. We can still manage.” I stared at the glass of water he offered me, slightly confused before I took it. “Thank you.”

“You are welcome,” he said. “Have you eaten today?”

I had to think about that for a second. “Nope. Didn’t have time.” I stood up. “Let’s just get this over with, then you are free to go.”

Tom moved forward and hugged me.

I hugged him back, of course, but he didn’t let go immediately. I shifted closer, and when his hand gently guided me, I put my head on his chest. He put his chin on top of my hair. It felt… divine. All I could feel was him, and all I could smell was the clean, soap smell I had come to expect from him. I felt a lot of my tension just float away, wrapped in Tom Hiddleston. I sighed.

When he moved away, I murmured a thank you, and tried not to cling.

“Better?”

I nodded and moved to the sofa again. “I think I needed that.”

Tom understood that I was in a bit of a time-crunch without my having to say so. He whipped the t-shirt off, and I tried not to ogle as I realized he wasn’t wearing anything underneath it. I looked at everything in his familiar trailer, not wanting to be caught staring, but unable to focus on anything but the sinfully half-naked man in front of me. His chest was smooth, the only hair I could see was his delicious happy trail… I gulped and mentally shook myself.

Tom’s smile had probably widened. Had he noticed my distraction? I couldn’t tell.

We chatted while he tried on all the various things. I told him about the work I still had pending while he told me he planned on going home and sleeping like the dead once he was sprung.

“Are you going to be able to work at full capacity when you are both hungry and tired?” he asked.

I shrugged. “I have to.”

“There might be something in my fridge…”

I laughed. “No thanks, Tom. I am fine, really. We will probably end up with takeout later. And that,” I pointed at the surcoat he was wearing, “is a perfect fit.” I grinned. “Are the armholes more comfortable now?”

He smiled down at me, happy in the face of my excitement. “Yes, thank you.” He pulled it off and handed it to me. “I suppose you now have to go work your arse off?”

“Yep,” I said as I zipped everything up. “See you tomorrow?”

“Could you wait just one more minute?” He said, as he tugged his t-shirt back on.

“Sure,” I said, turning to face him. “What is–?” The rest of my question was squashed against his lips, which were suddenly attached to my own.

Not that I minded.

His lips were a bit cool, and he nipped playfully at my bottom lip as his big hands went to my waist. Even though the insistent pressure of his mouth demanded a lot of my attention. I could help but notice how his thumbs tucked into the underside of my breasts, gentle and firm at the same time. Tom’s tongue was in my mouth as soon as my gasp gave him entry, and I proceeded to suck and nibble at it, chasing after it with my own tongue.

Without a conscious realization of what I was doing, I moved closer to him, seeking out the feel of him, willing to be wrapped up in him all over again. I could feel his chest press against my breasts, and when Tom’s tongue started to ravish the insides of my mouth, I decided to hold on and go for the ride. One of my hands wrapped around the back of his neck, the other grabbing a fistful of clothing near his waist.

When we unwrapped ourselves, we were both out of breath. I was insanely pleased to see how I affected him.

“Um,” I huffed, the personification of eloquence.

The grin that spread across his face could only be described as wolfish. “That was probably more than one minute,” he said, licking his lips. “But it was meant to be a good luck kiss for tonight’s all-nighter.”

I waited until I was absolutely certain all my brain cells were back online before I opened my mouth. “Thanks.” I thought for a moment. “You know, I could do with luck like this every day.”

Tom was enthusiastic about the idea.

* * *

I smiled as I imagined Tom frowning in bed, worried about me. I wasn’t a slave driver, really. Everyone had been sneaking off to the caterer across the street when they felt the need to munch on something. I hadn’t done that yet, simply because I wasn’t hungry. I had survived the day on Pepsi. All I wanted was to get everything over with and get horizontal.

Shrugging, I focused on the seam of the dress I was making by hand. Such a pity it was not going to survive the shoot next week. Anna and Audrey were both tackling the metal pieces onto the sleeves while I attached the bodice to the skirt. Every time I thought the skirt was going askew, I asked them to stop. Once the main dress was crafted, we were free to go home. Everyone was pitching in.

Well, everyone but Ben. Ben was on the phone, verbally sparring with warehouses to get us more silver silk by the time we clocked in tomorrow.

I sighed. A couple more hours of work, max. I pulled out another Pepsi.

It was a little after midnight when I got back to my hotel room after my killer sixteen-hour day. At least the Coomera Motor Inn was a ten-minute drive, because I was too woozy to drive a long distance. I nodded to the guy at the reception, wondering whether I should order something from the Chinese restaurant the Coomera boasted.

By the time the elevator dinged to my floor, I had decided I didn’t want to wait long enough for room service. Bed it was.

It took me a little less than three minutes to change and wipe lipstick off my face. And then, _finally_ , I was in bed.

When someone knocked on my door, I could have cheerfully murdered them.

I let them knock for a while, thinking childishly that maybe a lack of answer will show them I didn’t want to be disturbed, since the big-ass sign I had placed on the door was probably too subtle for them. But in the end, good manners won, and I got up to unlatch the door. “Who is it?”

“Room service!” said a voice, and I seriously thought had to think about my decision to not order some food. Had I actually ordered something and then forgotten in a haze of work-induced zombiness? I didn’t think so, but…

The smells hit me as soon as I opened the door. Food. A whole _cartful_ of food. Oh dear God, I could smell the deliciousness. I suddenly realized I was far hungrier than I realized.

Which made what I had to say even worse. “I didn’t order that.”

He nodded. “No, ma’am. Someone else did, on your behalf.” I frowned. “It’s all paid for and everything,” he said, his voice bored. He started to push the cart in, making me a little suspicious. How was I supposed to know he wasn’t trying to drug me or something?

“Who ordered it, then?”

H shrugged. “There’s a note…”

He plucked it off the cart and handed to me, then simply walked away. Curious, mildly anxious, I unfolded the note.

Tom. Of course he did.

I actually let out a deep sigh when I hit the bed with my steaming plate of chicken. A little bit of Netflix and chill for me, sponsored by my celebrity buddy. I grinned as I wolfed it all down. Tongue in cheek, I decided to rewatch the first few minutes of _The Deep Blue Sea_ with dinner. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I heavily object to the tendency of some men to try to swoop in and save the day sometimes. I mean, have you ever had that moment where you have a problem, and you completely have it handled, but the man in your life immediately tries to tell you how to fix it, constantly trying to show you the ‘right’ way of things? I tried to make sure Tom didn’t do that. He was worried, of course, but he didn’t tell Faith how to solve her problem (other than that one suggestion to delay schedule), or barge into her work space or anything. What he did in the end didn’t feel intrusive to me, it felt sweet. My earlier plan was that he just orders pizza for the whole department, but then I realized that he has no idea what everybody likes on their pizza. Also, it felt weird to show that Faith hadn’t let anyone eat lunch or dinner either. So I went with this.
> 
> I have no idea why I just explained this. Anyways, enjoy.


	11. Of Shopping and Decadent Coffee

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am sorry I have been for such a long time now. I really am. What happened was this: I saw Merlin. Then I fell in love with Colin Morgan (and annoyed Rosa with my new obsession, not that she complained). Then I watched all of Colin’s filmography.
> 
> Oh, and I also moved into a new apartment, and started shopping for my four-month trip to India this March.
> 
> So… yeah. Sorry. Someone anonymously asked when this fic was going to be updated, making me realize I miss writing it. Thank you, Nonny, whoever you were.
> 
> Oh, warning: I looked through the Ralph Lauren website and linked all the products I found and liked. They are all here, the links. Skip them if you want, but I put them there so you knew what I was talking about.

I don’t think the me of last year would recognize the me of now.

It’s not that I got a tattoo, or a sex change, or something visible. It’s the little things, really. It’s the way it takes me more time to get dressed in the morning, agonizing over my choices. It’s the fact that I recently bought my first bottle of body lotion in about four years. I sing in the shower now. I remembered to get my eyebrows plucked. I even shaved my legs, dreading a day warm enough for shorts and my jungle of dark hair on display.

I have never done this before–groomed for a man, actively thought about what might please him. It sounded anti-feminist before, but now I understand it. I like it when Tom tells me he likes the new way I smell (thank you, orange-scented body lotion).

Also, I am getting addicted to our morning kisses.

Tom texts me as soon as he enters the shooting complex, and I hurry over to his trailer for my Good Luck Snog of the Day. It’s become a thing with us, a thing to look forward to that makes me grin at inopportune moments… We have written each other enough texts to write a trilogy, but I don’t think we are going to stop any time soon. I am very sure everyone knows we’re… whatever it is we are. I haven’t ever had a romance, but I am sure that anyone who looks at the two of us together can see what is going on. It’s not as if we are limiting ourselves to the single morning kiss. Tom loves stealing kisses whichever way he can get them. And I don’t mind. Then there’s the fleeting touches–hands that linger longer than necessary, thumbs that caress, one-armed hugs that are too frequent and a little too friendly. I am a cuddler; I don’t think I will ever tire of Tom’s hugs.

Neither am I going to stop smiling like an idiot every time I see him.

Tom’s head appeared around the door to the Department, and my face lit up.

“Hey,” he said, his smile a lot cuter than mine, surely. “I heard you are heading out.”

I nodded happily. “And it’s still light out!” I laughed. “I am getting off at frigging three in the afternoon. It’s unheard of.”

Tom glanced around the room, even though he knew everyone was on set. “Well, you earned it. Besides, that’s why people have great teams working under them.”

“They will still call me if something goes wrong,” I sighed, grabbing my bag. “Are you off then?”

“Yeah,” said Tom as he opened the door for me. I am still not used to it, though he takes every opportunity to spoil me. “And I was wondering if I could ask for some help.”

“Oh?” I turned around as he closed the door after us. “What do you need?”

His hand settled on the small of my back as we walked together to the parking lot. “I was wondering… Do you have any plans today?”

I thought briefly about the latest chapter my friend Rosa had uploaded to her fanfiction. “Um… No.” _Except reading about a fake you doing the do.  
_

“I was hoping you could help me shop,” said Tom in a rush, like he expected me to refuse. “For, um, clothes.” He hurried on before I could say yes. “I mean, I know you must be tired, and I was hoping to give you a little more warning than just springing it on you, but I wanted to go shopping today, and I was hoping you’d… come with me.”

I smiled through his cute, nervous ramble. He leaned down to speak directly in my ear, but I doubt he noticed that he was doing it. His nervousness was hilarious, for some reason. He was just asking someone to accompany them to the shops! What was there to be nervous about?

“Since you only seem to have a handful of clothes, I will take pity on you and help,” I replied.

“You will?” Tom seemed surprised. “Thanks, Faith.” He adjusted course to his car, instead of mine. He was probably planning to drop me off later. I shrugged and went with it.

When we reached his car, I turned around to give him a flirty grin before slipping in. “Get in, loser. We’re going shopping.”

* * *

Shopping for someone else is tough, but it is a lot more fun when that someone is spending. Then you can just let go and imagine what colors can look good on them, and what styles. It’s heaven, shopping without an eye on your pocket.

The Polo Ralph Lauren near the studios was well-stocked, and I was going from display to display like a kid in a candy store, Tom trailing behind me with a smile. He was having almost as much fun as me, watching me shop for him.

I tried to discourage his monotone choices.

“Remember Tom,” I said. “Colour is not a bad thing!”

Tom sheepishly returned the black t-shirt he was holding to its display. “Sorry,” he said. “I am just never sure which colors I can carry off, really.”

“We will see,” I said distractedly. “But by God your wardrobe will have colour. Like…” I trailed off as a t-shirt caught my eye. “Yeah, this.” It was a simple [red](http://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.ralphlauren.com.au%2Fen%2Fmen%2Fshop-by-category%2Ft-shirts-66%2Fcotton-jersey-t-shirt-410516%2F411225%3Fcountry%3DAU%26currency%3DAUD&t=MWU1NmViMWNhOWM3MWFmZDdiOTdmM2JmODU2MjllZDA3ZjM1Mjk4YixraUtVTFFZbw%3D%3D) tee, but hey, it would look good on him.

“Hmm,” Tom tilted his head, considering. “Yeah, I like it, simple enough.”

“And the only colour I can find in this veritable sea of black, blue and beige. Ah, well.”

Tom laughed and placed the t-shirt over his arm, patiently waiting for me to pick out more things for him to try. There was a [light green cowboy t-shirt](http://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.ralphlauren.com.au%2Fen%2Fmen%2Fshop-by-category%2Ft-shirts-66%2Fcowboy-graphic-t-shirt-397794%2F401836&t=OGE2OWRlYTUyOWUyMDBkNDU0NDQ5YzBiNzgwMWI1ZTRiNTM3ZGVmZixraUtVTFFZbw%3D%3D) I pulled out with my tongue firmly in my cheek, and his eyes crinkled as he saw it. We hemmed and hawed over a [jersey t-shirt](http://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.ralphlauren.com.au%2Fen%2Fmen%2Fshop-by-category%2Ft-shirts-66%2Fstripe-crewneck-t-shirt-622187%2F647920&t=OTlkOTEyMzYwMjRlYTc1ZGY0ZDYyZDZjMDIyMDU0YTk3OTdmMDVhMixraUtVTFFZbw%3D%3D) with a red collar, picking it up in the end, deciding we could at least see what it looked like on him. Armed with about [eight ](http://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.ralphlauren.com.au%2Fen%2Fmen%2Fshop-by-category%2Fpolos-knits-66%2Fpima-keaton-long-sleeved-rugby-622453%2F640173%3Fcountry%3DAU%26currency%3DAUD&t=MTljNDEwZDY3OGE2NzZkNmNhNTlhYzQwMjRlZmYzYWI3NDVjM2FlYyxraUtVTFFZbw%3D%3D)different t-shirts, we strolled over to the jacket section, since Tom apparently wanted to stock on everything now that he had a personal shopper to agonize over choices with him.

“I only have like, two jackets!” he lamented.

“You don’t say,” was my dry response.

If the the t-shirt section had seemed bleached of colour, the outerwear section was completely monochrome. The sales girl hovered, a lot more polite and interested than middle-class me was used to. I did see her amused expression as she took in my work clothes, but it didn’t bother me. If I were to wear the stuff she peddled I would go hungry all year, drowning in debt. I let her hover, even though I made it very clear I didn’t need her help. She took our t-shirts away, to keep safe while we looked.

Even though choices seemed limited, I did find things that would look amazing on Tom. Not that he wouldn’t be drop-dead-gorgeous in a trash bag, but I was partial to my finds: a [Kalahari Newsboy Jacket](http://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.ralphlauren.com.au%2Fen%2Fmen%2Fshop-by-category%2Fjackets-and-outerwear-66%2Fkalahari-newsboy-jacket-269085%2F270531%3Fcountry%3DAU%26currency%3DAUD&t=MDJhM2RmNDZiMTFjMWY3MDhhOWQ4ZDRjNDUxOWJiY2U1ZWU5NjE0YSxraUtVTFFZbw%3D%3D) in brown, a [Henfield Suede Aviator Jacket](http://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.ralphlauren.com.au%2Fen%2Fmen%2Fshop-by-category%2Fjackets-and-outerwear-66%2Fhenfield-suede-aviator-jacket-1088027%2F1088136%3Fcountry%3DAU%26currency%3DAUD&t=ZTJkMGRhNGViY2RiMjk2ZmM2ZWEzNjE5MmQ4ZWQ3ZjA3NGZlNTFiYixraUtVTFFZbw%3D%3D) in a colour described as Modern Mocha, and several hoodies. The colours of the hoodies were still [grey](http://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.ralphlauren.com.au%2Fen%2Fmen%2Fshop-by-category%2Fpolos-knits-66%2Fshawl-collar-hoodie-621501%2F636267%3Fcountry%3DAU%26currency%3DAUD&t=NmVhMWQ0YWJlYTBmNmZhOThmNGIyNWZjNmI2ZjNiYThjNmFkMTg3YSxraUtVTFFZbw%3D%3D), [blue ](http://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.ralphlauren.com.au%2Fen%2Fmen%2Fshop-by-category%2Fpolos-knits-66%2Ffleece-full-zip-hoodie-621484%2F646006%3Fcountry%3DAU%26currency%3DAUD&t=OWFiMzhlNmY4NjhkYjZiZThjZjRlNWUxOTdhM2FkOGU1NmZlMjU4NyxraUtVTFFZbw%3D%3D)and [black](http://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.ralphlauren.com.au%2Fen%2Fmen%2Fshop-by-category%2Fpolos-knits-66%2Fpima-cotton-waffle-hoodie-269026%2F270928%3Fcountry%3DAU%26currency%3DAUD&t=MjgwNWE4YTZiYjI1NTBkMWIzNDM4ZTk0ZDFkZWZhOTU2YjkyMDFhZCxraUtVTFFZbw%3D%3D), but I could literally find nothing else. At least the [cable-knit sweater](http://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.ralphlauren.com.au%2Fen%2Fmen%2Fshop-by-category%2Fsweaters-66%2Fcable-knit-cotton-sweater-622126%2F623860%3Fcountry%3DAU%26currency%3DAUD&t=N2FkYjQ4MjVkYTUyZjVmODA1MDY5Mjk0NWMyYTBhODJlYzYzZTE3ZSxraUtVTFFZbw%3D%3D) was pink. It had caught my eye across the room. Even when I asked, nobody could supply another colour for the black [Suede-Trim Pima Pullover](http://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.ralphlauren.com.au%2Fen%2Fmen%2Fshop-by-category%2Fpolos-knits-66%2Fsuede-trim-pima-pullover-621485%2F646012%3Fcountry%3DAU%26currency%3DAUD&t=ZTU5ZGRlZDg2Yzc3MGRiYWU3MjIwODlhN2IzMDk3YzkyYmZhZjk3OCxraUtVTFFZbw%3D%3D).

“Are you very partial to Ralph Lauren?” I asked Tom in exasperation as we walked towards the changing room.

He grinned. “No. Give me whatever brand you want. I am very sure you are going to be way better than me at this shit.”

I tripped a little on my own two feet when I heard him cuss. I have no idea why, but I like mundane curses in his posh voice. I have never heard one in real life before. He seemed to realize that soon, for he stopped and turned to me. “Oh, um, sorry.” He looked sheepish.

I peered around him to check whether he had dropped something. “Why?”

“For the… um, for–well, nothing.”

It took me a moment. “Are you apologizing for cursing? Tom, you know I curse like an ex-marine trucker, right?”

He laughed outright as we made our way through the beautifully posh polished wood display tables. I sat on the benches outside the trial rooms as Tom hauled his loot inside. A few other patrons in the store was glancing at me curiously. I obviously didn’t fit in here with my peasant-wear, but what were they going to do?

“I like this one,” said Tom as he strode out of the changing rooms in the pink sweater. “What do you think? Too metrosexual?”

“I like it on you,” I said, meaning it. It was structurally very similar to the sweaters he usually wore, but the colour looked good on him.

“I can’t decide which one of the jackets I _don’t_ want. I think I will buy all of them.”

I grinned, happy at our success. In the end, we bought everything except the Jersey. I tried really hard not to swoon when I caught a glimpse of the final bill. It was about as much as my monthly salary. I didn’t faint, but it was a close thing. Tom had to steady me.

Unfortunately, my half-swoon looked to his guilty heart to be an after-effect of our shopping trip, and he promptly insisted on getting a bite to eat. “I have already bought so much,” he said, waving around the armful of bags he refused to let me help carry. “Let’s just sit and have a bite to eat. It’s almost time for tea.”

I rolled my eyes at that bit of Britishness, and calmly made my way back to Tom’s Jag. “I wouldn’t mind some coffee. And the sweetest thing they have on display that has chocolate in it.”

We found a cafe about fifteen minutes later, some place called [Zarraffa](http://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.zarraffas.com%2Fhot-drinks%2F&t=NjYxYjAxYmNiNDNmZjE1Mzg5MjUxNjk1YWQyZGU5MmZlOWU2OTJjYSxraUtVTFFZbw%3D%3D)’s on our way to the studios again, and sat down to finish off our impromptu shopping trip with some well-earned calories. It took me all of two minutes to decide what I wanted.

“I am grabbing the caramalized mocha,” I declared, before Tom could even pull his glasses out to read the menu above the baristas. “That’s what I am getting.”

Tom laughed. “That was quick.” He perused the selection I had made, and turned to give me a mischievous grin when he saw the description. “I see why,” he smirked.

“Tom,” I began solemnly. “It is a coffee with hot chocolate fudge and caramel. _Caramel_.” I shrugged. “What else does a human being need to survive?”

Tom laughed. “Then does this count as the sweetest thing on display?”

I considered. “No. But it will be once I pour two packets of sugar in.”

Tom’s laugh distracted the people in the line ahead of us. A couple of the people kept staring, their eyes squinting at Tom.

I felt Tom stiffen next to me as he realized he had been noticed. I soothed a hand up and down his arm. “You okay?” I tried glaring at the really rude couple of boys who were making him uncomfortable.

“Yes, I am,” said Tom as he shook his mood off, paying attention to the display again. “Will you think too little of me if I just order a latte?”

“Well,” I replied airily. “Someone has to buy the boring ones, I guess.”

Tom smiled as we moved up to the counter to place our orders. The barista recognized Tom, as was evident by her squeak and wide eyes as she looked to see he was next in line, and then I could almost hear her thought process–should she say something? Should she mention she was a big fan? Would it be appropriate? Should she wait till we were done? Her hands shook as she took the order.

In the end, her courage failed her, and she simply took our order and asked us to go wait while she hurried into the back. She was probably going to scream in a bathroom somewhere.

Even when our coffee was done, she just came by and chose not to mention being a fan. I noted her name, thinking that Rose was a good fangirl if she was curbing her instincts so as to not bother Tom.

“She is your fangirl,” I told Tom once she was gone.

“Hmmm?” Tom had taken the first sip of his coffee as I stared at the barista. Apparently, he liked it.

“She is your fangirl. Our barista, Rose. Didn’t want to bother you, couldn’t find the courage.”

Tom looked back at Rose thoughtfully, who noticed his glance and glowed red like a beacon. He smiled. “I like it when people understand the need to be discreet.”

“Is that why you wear colourless clothes?”

“I told you why–I am never sure which colours I can pull off.”

“You would if you just tried different colours on.”

He sighed. “I need to start looking at other brands, right?”

“Yes, God, please.”

“I am not a God right now. I left my gear at the studio.”

There were mutual smiles as we sipped in silence and chipped away at the piece of chocolate cake we had ordered as the sweetest thing. It was delicious, as was the coffee. I made Tom taste mine. He didn’t return it for a while, not that I minded. His latte was yummy too.

“Faith?”

“Mmm?”

“Are you scared of me?”

I had to quickly swallow before I sprayed him with hot coffee in my surprise. “Scared? Of you? Umm… no? Why? Why should I be?”

“Because of what happened. Because of that idiot you were married to.” Now that his question was out, Tom seemed reluctant to discuss it. It seemed like the question had been wrenched from him despite his will.

I thought for a minute so that I could give him an honest answer. “I am too happy right now to be scared of anything. I feel invincible. But I do think sometimes, that I am going to fuck everything up, and that something that is obvious to normal people isn’t going to be obvious to me. I have never… done this before. And there are times when I am scared I might disappoint you.” My hands were wrapped tight around my coffee cup, my hands becoming uncomfortably warm. I still didn’t relinquish my death grip. “But I know you will be patient with me.” I looked up with that, hoping my eyes were going to convey this truth well enough.

“Yes,” said Tom, his hand covering mine where it lay on the table. “Of course I will. You don’t need to worry about anything, Faith. I feel pretty damn invincible too.”

I laughed. “That’s because you are Loki. Hey, if you are Loki, can I be Jessica Jones?”

“Sure,” he said easily. He waited a beat. “Who is that?”

I made a face. “You don’t know who Jessica Jones is? Oh come on! It’s like the best superhero show I have watched on TV… It’s like, there’s so much amazingness in the show. And like, an honest-to-God lesbian relationship that feels real instead of porny. I mean, not that it is very central to the story, but they just surprised me with their treatment of it. They are going through problems any couple goes through. It’s good. And Kilgrave is the most depraved, disgusting, assholic super villain I have ever seen.”

“Well, now, that’s just hurtful, darling,” said Tom, finishing his coffee with a mock-sad face. Gentleman that he is, he still let me have the last bite of the chocolate cake.

“Loki? Oh come on, Loki isn’t a bad guy for me.” I smiled. “He is just misunderstood.”

Before we left, Tom made sure to walk up to Rose and offer her a photo and an autograph. I daresay it was the best tip she had ever gotten. Her face was scarlet in the photo I clicked though. She didn’t mind.

On the five-minute drive back to the studios, Tom pestered me with questions about Jessica Jones. He seemed intrigued, but I was still reluctant to talk about it, worried I might slip into fangirl mode and dump tons of fangirling on him.

“You don’t want to start a discussion like that with a fangirl,” I told him.

Tom’s eyes left the road for a brief minute to find mine. “I really, really, do.” When he saw me hesitate, he rolled his eyes. “This is like me telling you I can’t discuss Shakespeare with you.”

“No!” I said, vehemently. “You can! You so can. You can even fanboy about _Heat_.”

“See? Why are you afraid of talking to me about your interests then?”

I thought about it. Why was I so afraid. If I talked his ear off, I could always tell him he asked for it.

And that is how I spent fifteen minutes inside a parked car with Tom Hiddleston in the parking lot of Village Roadshow Pictures, animatedly talking about how Kilgrave was a depraved soul.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am sorry, once again, for this chapter being so late. Since I have finally managed to make my friend Rosa see AMC Humans, I think you can expect a chapter of a brand new Leotilda fic next week (shamelessly asking you to spread the word). Or I might finish the first chapter of my Merlin fic. But please don’t worry about this fic. I will come back to it the next week, yeah?
> 
> Hope you liked this installment, and here’s hoping you like where this is going. Thanks for sticking around, guys! Since this chapter is already super late, I am not going to schedule it for my normal Friday night release, but the next chapter will be Friday night at 9 PM.


	12. Of Raunchy Kisses and Tumblr Friends

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rose is based in part on my friend audlie45, Audlie45 here on AO3, but is still a fictional representation. Go check out her stuff! The real version did make those amazing screenshots you see, and she also helped me work out the kinks in the first part of the chapter.

“ _Why?_ ” Tom roared at me, making me flinch and huddle back into the sofa. “Why should I care what you want, when you never did? I have what I wanted, I have all that is rightfully mine.” His eyes sparkled in a sinister way. “And you think you can appeal to my _humanity_?”

I couldn’t stop myself from scooting my ass further back into the cushions as his eyes narrowed and Loki’s Growling Hiss made an appearance. He leaned forward a bit from where he was towering over me. “Are you forgetting _what_ I am, father?”

I was so bloody mesmerized that it took me a while to realize that he was looking at me curiously. Like Tom, not Loki. What…?

“Oh,” I squeaked. “Sorry! I was…” Shaking it off, I looked back at the script in my hand. “Um, I know that you are my son.”

“Am I?” said Tom, instantly back in character. “It was not my _father_ who condemned me to the dungeons. It was _not_ my father who called me Laufeyson!” He paused for a second, extreme contempt warring with something broken in his eyes. “I have no father,” he whispered.

I just sat there, stunned. That was it. That was the end of the scene Tom was supposed to film in a few minutes. I had motherfucking goosebumps.

Tom… deflated of sorts. His shoulders relaxed a little, and he swiped a hand through his hair. It was humbling to be privy to this–the in-between time between actor and character. He wasn’t smiling, not yet. In fact, his eyes were shining suspiciously. I didn’t say anything. It was a weird, emotional scene. I could already see the gifsets adorning my Tumblr dash after the movie’s release.

Tom swiped the bottle from the coffee table and drank about half of it in one go. Apparently acting is a very thirsty business. He sat down next to me with a quiet sigh. He cleared his throat, clearly winding down. I said nothing, just stared like a simpleton.

He spoke after a minute or two. “So, what do you think?”

“I think I would cut of one my tits for Loki to have some happiness, and sell a kidney for Sigyn to be part of the MCU.”

Now it was Tom who looked stunned. Well, he should have thought about my emotional state before he asked. “Um.”

“Sorry,” I said. “I was… sorry. No, whispering at the end is better, I think. Let’s see if Ken likes you yelling better. But the whispering suits Loki. Specially with the expression. It shows more anguish, I think.” Having exhausted all ability to think, I just shut up and thought about the bit of live theatre performance I had just seen. Tom settled into the sofa.

There was a beat.

“Cut off one of your tits?” Tom snorted. “Oh God!”

I couldn’t help grinning. “Well, maybe. Maybe not.”

“I’d much rather you didn’t,” he chuckled, his eyes straying a bit before he caught himself. “I like them.”

“Do you now?” I tried to sound coy, aware that his hand had strayed to the back of my neck, but with my lack of experience I probably just sounded constipated. I smiled as Tom pulled me in for a kiss. His left arm was on along the back of the sofa, and his other hand snaked around to my waist as his lips met mine in a soft, sweet kiss. I tried to stop smiling, so that he could kiss something other than my teeth. I don’t think I succeeded, but he didn’t seem to mind.

The kiss seemed to be changing pace too. I licked his thin lips for the simple reason that I wanted to, and he opened up immediately. When I touched his tongue with mine, he sort of _growled_. I froze, the sound reverberating in my skull a little. Holy hotness.

“Sorry,” said Tom instantly. “Um, did I…? Was I…? Faith? Darling, something the matter?”

“No, I was–” _creaming myself, I thought. Because you fucking growled._ “Sorry,” I shivered. He hadn’t growled, exactly. He had… purred. Like a satisfied cat. That one Tumblr gif of him as a cat came to mind. I smiled. “I am good, promise. Just…” The filter between my head and mouth shriveled and died. “You make amazing noises when you kiss.”

Oh God, why the motherfuck did I say that? I think I turned crimson immediately. Was there some truth serum in the water?

Tom _smirked_ , the bastard. He took a second to ascertain I was good, and then continued sucking my brains out with his incredibly talented mouth. His hand started to move a bit from my waist up towards my aforementioned breasts, and I could feel the warm trail left by that hand far longer than I should. My skin tingled under my plain cotton dress where his huge hand touched me. I felt quite drugged.

My hands started moving too, without my permission. One of my hands was planted firmly at the back of his neck, manipulating his head to properly receive my kisses. The other was clutching on to his shirt as though my life depended on it. I was very sure I was mussing it up, but I couldn’t be arsed to focus on it enough. I let go long enough to stroke a pectoral through cotton.

When Tom actually did cup a breast, I could _feel_ my nipple peaking. I made an embarrassing sound too–somewhere between a moan and a keen–and arched in a completely wanton way. His touch was gentle–not unsure, just soft enough that all I had to do was move to dislodge it. He couldn’t doubt my reaction to the touch at all though, and he gave a gentle squeeze as I clutched at his fucking shirt like a dying lunatic.

“Tom,” I breathed out, my brain too short to raise red flags about how idiotic I probably sounded.

Tom’s answering _hmmm_ was all coarse and guttural, and I decided I could die happy if he promised to send me off with an audio recording I could listen to in heaven.

Of course, that was the moment someone chose to knock on the door of the trailer.

“Tom? Ken needs you to get back in gear.” It took my kiss-addled brain a minute to realize that it was Chris Hemsworth. “There’s a lighting issue with some of today’s shots. Come on!”

It took Tom four more minutes to get out of the trailer. He told them it was because he was in the restroom.

* * *

I smiled as I snuggled into bed. God bless hotel beds. I don’t have that weird feeling people get when they sleep into hotel beds. I mean, come on! Someone’s changing the sheets for you. They will get you more toilet paper. There’s coffee next to your bed. It’s paradise.

And the other name for paradise? Tumblr.

There were still lots of people online, because there were still lots of new posts coming in. While I scrolled through someone else’s gofundme appeal, I thought about whether or not it there was any new Tom-related news. Apparently Colin Morgan had looked dapper at the red carpet for the premiere of _The Rising: 1916_ , which meant my dash was filled with his beautiful mug captured from different angles.

And then I saw it.

There I was, standing next to Tom Hiddleston in one of the three pics Rose had gotten from us the day before. Tom stood grinning at the camera next to me, and Rose was blushing scarlet next to him. The pic was simply captioned _Look who dropped in for some coffee!_

It already had more than twelve thousand notes. I felt an insane urge to puke at the thought of so many people seeing my ugly mug. Well, I had taken a picture with a stranger (because Tom had insisted). What was Rose supposed to do? Hide it in her sock drawer? I sighed clicked through to the source blog.

Which turned out to be a very bad idea.

There were tons of asks about me. _Me_. Jesus.

I could see one on my dash.

I was confused. She was being rude to people? Oh my God, what were people assuming about me? I hurriedly clicked on her blog link to check other posts.

Oh God Almighty.

I was vaguely aware that I was hyperventilating. Fangirls thought I was his girlfriend. Which, considering our face-sucking activities, wasn’t untrue, but… Oh God.

Despite the probability of more hyperventilation, I continued.

This one made me smile. I have no idea why. It was fun to read. I could be the queen of England. Ha! Not bloody likely. But so funny. I felt myself relax a bit.

Fucking finally! At least there was someone who wasn’t an ass about this whole thing. I could actually imagine our cheery barista being ecstatic and giggling. Good for her.

I finally scrolled enough to find the Ask that had started it all.

As I read further and further down the neat, red blog page, I could feel myself grinning. This was a whole new side to the blushing barista I had met yesterday. I wondered now if I should have spent more time talking to her. She certainly cursed as much as me.

Ignoring the sinking feeling in my stomach at the thought of being a minor celebrity on Tumblr, I opened up a private chat to thank Rose. Then I sat there debating. If I wrote her a private message, she would have my blog address. If I sent her an ask, I would be anonymous, but she could publish them. I didn’t think she would, but…

Sighing, I decided on a simple private chat. She was interesting. I had no problem if she knew my blog address.

 _Hello_ , I wrote simply. _It’s me, Faith. I just wanted to thank you for not encouraging these vicious inquiries._

 _Oh hello there!_ came the reply. _Of course I told those fuckers off. I have no idea why people do that anyways._

 _Me neither,_ I confided. _It’s annoying._

 _Would you mind if I ask you what Tom ordered?_ She sent unexpectedly. _I just want to be sure it is not one of those idiots lol_

 _Sure,_ I replied, pleased with her presence of mind. _I think he ordered a latte. Nothing like my caramel delight._

 _Ftr that is exactly what I would off the menu,_ she wrote. Ah, a kindred soul.

 _So I hope you are happy with the photo and autograph,_ I wrote. I was running out of things to say.

 _Are you kidding me?_ she answered. _I am still tingly all over. Tom Hiddleston touched me. I feel drugged._

There was a small lull in the conversation before she wrote another message. _Sorry, that must have sounded weird._

 _Nope_ , I replied honestly. _I still feel tingly when he touches me._ It was the truth.

 _I see from your blog you are his fangirl,_ Rose wrote. _jfc how does that feel? Do you work with him? Are you working on the movie now? You don’t have to answer_

_No, no, it’s fine. I am working on the movie, I am part of the crew._

_Have you read the script?_

_Yep,_ I replied smugly. _There’s a non-disclosure agreement unfortunately._ In my head I could see the cute barista from the other day, groaning. Possibly rolling her eyes too. I grinned.

_Fine. Don’t tell me._

There was a long pause. I had started reading an article on another tab when she messaged me again.

_Plz tell me?_

I laughed. Oh God, she was fun. We ended up chatting about Tom’s various projects–and Shakespeare–for an hour or so. Definitely counting Rose as a friend from now on. I felt like preening–antisocial me actually made a friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of sad news. I am going to India for four months. I will not have access to the internet, unfortunately. So, um, no more chapters for the next four months. On the plus side, after my hiatus, I just might have loads of chapters I wrote on my vacation. Or I will attack my to-read list, which includes @evansscruff‘s Something New. I think I will read it in the plane :)
> 
> Also, I have written a new chapter for my Shakespeare’s The Tempest fanfic, The Shipwrecked Maiden. I have scheduled it for Friday, 9 PM. After that, there will be a lack of posts for four months. I might get to the internet, I might not. My Mom does have Wi-Fi, though my mom-in-law doesn’t. So… we will see.
> 
> Please don’t leave me. Stick around, I will be back! Thanks for reading!


	13. Of Hotel Rooms and Steamy Kisses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tom has some sad news.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am thinking that Tom is staying at the [Peppers Ruffles Lodge and Spa](http://www.peppers.com.au/). His room is the [executive suite](http://www.peppers.com.au/Portals/0/GalleryImages/Public/Peppers/RufflesLodge/Gallery/Peppers-Ruffles-Lodge-Spa-Execiutive-Suite-Bedroom.jpg) (the least pretentious thing I could find), and the dining lounge looks like [this](http://www.peppers.com.au/Portals/0/GalleryImages/Public/Peppers/RufflesLodge/Gallery/Peppers-Ruffles-Lodge-Spa-Dining-Lounge-View.jpg). [Here](http://www.peppers.com.au/Portals/0/GalleryImages/Public/Peppers/RufflesLodge/Gallery/Peppers-Ruffles-Lodge-Spa-Infinity-Pool.jpg)’s a pic of the pool, and [here](http://www.peppers.com.au/Portals/0/GalleryImages/Public/Peppers/RufflesLodge/Gallery/Peppers-Ruffles-Lodge-Spa-Hero1.jpg)’s the view from it. [Here](http://www.peppers.com.au/Portals/0/GalleryImages/Public/Peppers/RufflesLodge/Gallery/Peppers-Ruffles-Lodge-Spa-View-to-Gold-Coast.jpg)’s what the gold coast looks like at night.
> 
> They talk about going to the [Warner Brothers Movie World](https://www.google.com/url?sa=t&rct=j&q=&esrc=s&source=web&cd=1&cad=rja&uact=8&ved=0ahUKEwiB-Za44pfOAhWi7oMKHR8DB2sQFggpMAA&url=http%3A%2F%2Fmovieworld.com.au%2F&usg=AFQjCNHIaCUfnAUzLKTp2aZ3frZEdCueag&sig2=rTYPghm8acTJdvEF66q2NQ&bvm=bv.128617741,d.amc), which is close to where the shoot is.

“I am going to be leaving for London soon,” whispered Tom in my hair.

 

Even though I had heard the rumors about the two units for about a week now, the information--straight from the horse’s mouth, so to speak--made my heart give a long, slow stutter. I blinked a couple times, still holding tight to Tom’s shoulders, reluctant to let the hug end.

 

There was only one thing I could say. “Okay.”

 

“It’s only for three weeks,” said Tom, tilting back to look into my morose face. “I will be back before they start filming the battle sequences. All principal filming on my scenes is done, and I need to focus on training for the battle sequences, but Ben is stuck in London with other projects. I just need to go to him, train for a bit, and then I will be back.”

 

I thought dark, evil thoughts about Ben Cooke, our stunt coordinator, for a bit. “Yeah, okay,” I said, still the picture of abject dejection. Then I realized I was behaving like a crazy teenager. “When are you leaving?” I said with a bit more enthusiasm.

 

He didn’t comment on the fakeness of the enthusiasm. “Next Thursday.”

 

“I’ll be here, waiting.”

 

* * *

 

 

“You are just ridiculously tall, Chris,” I muttered as I fixed the damn red cape for the nineteenth time that day.

 

Chris just laughed and bent his knees a little, helping me reach. He was too hot in the costume, but he didn’t complain at all, just kept drinking bottles upon bottles of water. He had already apologized for the sweat he was going to leave with the costume by the end of the day.

 

“Okay, done,” I said. “Now, if you will excuse me, I need to dress some golden einherjar.”

 

Costume-wise, it was a bit of a slow day. There was one big scene between Chris and Cate, and another unit was doing broad shots of Asgard with the green screen team. The einherjar, when I got back to the costume department, were already mostly dressed, with just a bit of a mad scramble for an odd boot or helmet remaining. Audrey was directing everybody dressed out of the department, and there was a great clanging of swords and helmets as people banged props into each other.

 

“Hi,” sighed Audrey. “Who’s on set duty?”

 

“I don’t know,” I said. “Who wants it?”

 

“What’s more titillating than scrutinizing raw film footage for specks of lint?” said Jason as he grinned and handed me a cup of coffee.

 

“It’s more than that, and you know it,” I admonished lightly. “Three to a set, and take one on-set kit each. You can choose which set, but come on guys, there’s a reason they pay us.”

 

“Not very well,” muttered Ben as he picked up one of the emergency kits.

 

I didn’t reply. We were all cranky, we had been scampering around since dawn. I checked my phone for the nineteenth time that day, instead. And was finally rewarded with a message from Tom.

  


I smiled and put my phone away. Chris and Cate were being called back on set, and I wanted my attention on work, because--unlike Tom--I wasn’t finished with filming.

 

And I missed Tom.

 

It was ridiculous, since it had barely been a couple of days since he went on break, but I did. I missed seeing his grin, his cute expressions and his twinkling eyes. I missed his voice, and his kisses.

 

Lord, did I miss those kisses.

 

I shook off the weird mood I was in, determined to be professional. The lighting department called for a break and I took off to brush Cate’s collar, putting thoughts of my morning kisses on the backburner.

  


I couldn’t stop a gigantic grin from blooming all over my face. Was it crazy that we couldn’t stay apart for two days? Probably, but since we both were not weirded out by it, it worked. I asked Tom for directions to his hotel and told him I would be there in an hour.

* * *

Like I had suspected, Tom’s 5-star lodge far surpassed my own wee hotel room.

 

The reception area itself felt like it was judging my mediocre pay grade. It _shone._ Like, literally, the overall impression I had was wood and shine--the polish gleamed in a way that told me someone’s only job at this place was to keep the shine intact. Off-white couches were littered around in a cozy seating area, and that’s where Tom was waiting for me.

 

My gigantic grin from before was replicated on his face. “Hello, darling,” he said, pulling me into a warm hug.

 

I had never been gladder that Tom liked to hug. “Hello,” I said, trying to hide the fact that I was burrowing into him like a very clingy koala. “How was your day?”

 

Tom stepped back to usher me to his suite. “I spent the whole day in sweatpants, with music on.”

 

“My kind of holiday,” I murmured as we walked out the back door and around a beautiful pool. The natural view was amazing. There was green as far as I cared to look, and I wondered if Tom got up to run in the mornings here. “I spent the whole day in jeans with sound equipment feedback on.”

 

Tom laughed and motioned for me to follow him.

 

He had his own pool. That was the first thing that struck me as I walked into his suite. I could see it, off the wide double glass doors, the sun glinting off the water and onto the muted cream walls. It was big, spacious, and airy.

 

“Not a bad place to stay, if you have to stay abroad for a few months,” I commented.

 

“Yeah,” he said with a laugh. “It’s not bad at all.”

 

And before I knew it, Tom had spun me around by my arm, hoisted me up a little, and kissed me. I felt my whole body melt into the kiss… I made a needy sound in my throat that I would absolutely deny later, and slid both arms around his waist to steady myself as his tongue stroked the inside of my mouth. He tasted sweet, like he had eaten candy before I came over. I licked his lips and chased the taste.

 

Tom’s huge hands were cupping my jaw, and he tilted my head as he liked to plunder my mouth better. I was in heaven. An eternity passed before he stopped. “Sorry,” he said against my lips. “Just wanted to do that since I saw you at the lounge.”

 

“That’s okay,” I muttered to the hollow of his throat. “It’s a tastier way of getting drunk.”

 

Tom laughed for a whole minute.

* * *

“But it will be fun!”

 

“Nope.”

 

“There are amazing rides--”

 

“Nope.”

 

“Oh come on!”

 

“Do you really want me to go to a theme park, willingly _pay_ to get on a heart-attack inducing behemoth of a machine, climb to the top of the world only to plummet back at terrorizing speeds? Really?”

 

Tom was silent for a moment. “Of course not. I’ll pay.”  


I snorted into my Pepsi. “Yeah, I don’t like rides.”

 

“You don’t say.” When I just gave him a look, he turned on the puppy dog eyes. “Come on, darling… it will be fun! There’s lots more to do. You can check out the website, there’s stunt driving and 3D shows and other stuff...”

 

I huffed out a breath. Of course I was gonna go, but there was no reason to be _easy_ about it. I wanted to go to Warner Brothers. It was right next door. But a little negotiation was required. “You won’t force me on the rides?”

 

Tom looked like he was in physical pain. We were sitting cross-legged on the bed, and he gripped his ankles to console himself. “Okay.”

 

“And I can see the 4D show?”

 

“Of course.”

 

“Okay, we are going. Tomorrow?”

 

“What are Saturdays for?” confirmed the excited child in front of me. Then he whooped and more or less knocked me onto my back with an excited tackle. “Come on, be excited!”

 

“I am,” I said, grinning widely. “I get to see you in pyjamas!”

 

This led to even more kissing. I kissed him with all the skill he had recently taught me, already missing him even though there were six days left. I wished he wasn’t leaving, and tried to show him that. Tom rearranged himself a bit so as to not crush me with his long, lean body, with his knees planted between my thighs, one of his elbows next to my neck, a hand in my hair. I could feel my scalp tingling near his light grip. Emboldened by his enthusiastic participation, I licked into his mouth, waiting till he opened his mouth to suck his tongue. Tom made that sound again--the growling/purring thing that melts my panties. Without conscious thought, my legs bent and tightened, my ankles on his hips now. He was forced off his plank, and we touched. _Everywhere._

 

And Tom was _really_ enjoying my wanton behaviour.

 

I gasped into his mouth as I felt his hardness pressing into my hip. Tom immediately tried to back off, misjudging my gasp, trying to put some distance between us. I tightened my legs and pushed him back down with my ankles on his tight butt.

 

“Faith,” he muttered against my neck. “You-you okay?”

 

“Sort of on cloud nine, yeah,” I said as Tom started to lick and suck on my neck. The attention made me moan.

 

“You sort of… stiffened, darling,” said Tom doggedly. “You sure you are okay with this?”

 

At least he had stopped trying to get off of me. “Well, I am not the only one.” Even though I was trying to be cool about it, I wasn’t really. I was internally dancing. I had done that. _Me!_ Little, common me had actually enticed a man. I felt such power knowing I could do this to him. I don’t know why, but I felt such an intense pride in my prowess that my heart was knocking in my ears.

 

Tom stopped moving against me minutely to touch his forehead to mine. “Fuck.” His expression was weird.

 

It took me a minute to realize it wasn’t an instruction, and the knocking I heard wasn’t my heart. It was the door. Tom huffed out a breath and got up in one fluid motion I had to envy.

 

“Room service,” I realized.

 

“Yeah,” he said, moving to the door. “First time I am bothered by their promptness, darling.” He took a deep breath, composing himself before he opened the door.

 

I blushed. What the _hell_ had we been doing? Holy shit! _HOLY SHIT!_

 

The cute redheaded waiter looked at me with worried eyes as she wheeled in the food cart and I hyperventilated on the bed. Jesus. What was the protocol? What was I gonna do next? What _should_ I do next? Were we gonna do it tonight? Because I hadn’t put on my new sexy underwear. I needed to shave my legs. I needed to breathe.

 

Apparently, I needed to do none of those things. We ended up sitting cross-legged in bed again, eating chicken parm and talking about my work day. Tom told me about the song that had been stuck in his head all day--Ke$ha’s Tik Tok--and I told him about this fan video I had seen of a few of the characters he had played that was based on one of Ke$ha’s songs. We ended up watching the fanvideo on his phone. He was laughing so hard by the end that I suggested he tweet it. He did.

 

Before I knew it, I was yawning, sleepy and full. Tom offered to drop me off.

 

“Nope,” I said.

 

“I don’t want you falling asleep at the wheel, darling.”

 

“I am not _that_ sleepy,” I said. “Besides, I brought my car.” I pivoted on one heel, looking for my other shoe. “I need it in the morning.”

 

“Then I will follow you.”

 

“How exactly is that going to help?” I said as I leaned against him, finally putting my other heel on. He obligingly stood still, like my own personal wall. “I will call you when I get back to my room.”

 

After a hasty round of negotiations--punctuated by a frantic search through my purse for my car keys--I finally convinced Tom that he didn’t need to follow me to my hotel at 11:36 pm. It was a heady battle, but I won.

 

And all the way back to my hotel, I thought about what we had done that evening. The _kissing_. The grinding. I grew all hot and bothered thinking about it. Even the woman at the reception seemed interested in why I was grinning like a loon at midnight, but I simply skipped to the lift and rode up to my room.

 

Life was good. At least for the next six days.


	14. Of Theme Rides and Cats Out of Bags

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am going to be visiting the Universal Studios in Orlando next month (with a side trip to Disney Epcot). Hysterically excited for the Wizarding World of Harry Potter! So here’s a theme-park inspired chapter! Hope you guys enjoy! Tom and Faith are visiting this theme park, which is walking distance from the studio where Thor 3 is being filmed. 
> 
> Also, three cheers for audlie45! Thanks for messaging me shit I scripted and for the preread, advice, and sympathetic ear for my rambling.

I considered it a point of great pride that I hadn’t puked on Tom’s shoes. Yet. But I swear to God, if he drags me to the Batwing Spaceshot again, I am going to lose all the fast food I have gorged on today, and he is probably going to smell like puke when he goes back to his hotel later.

 

And but right now I have (literally) bigger problems.

 

“But there is Virtual Reality now!”

 

“I know. Which will trick my mind into thinking I need to puke. Perfect.”

 

“You’re not going to puke,” insisted Tom. “I mean, don’t you want to? Arkham Asylum is the scariest ride here.”

 

“And it did well,” I retorted, stealing some of his popcorn as we unerringly made our way in the general direction of the damn ride. “I am fucking scared of it.”

 

“We’ve seen everything else, this is the only thing left.”

 

“I can’t argue with you if you are being reasonable, Tom,” I sighed. Fuck.

 

The bastard just _ehehehehe_ d.

 

Don’t ask me how, but eight minutes later, I was in line to voluntarily allow strangers to strap me into a seat hanging off a rail that didn’t look nearly sturdy enough to hold my weight. I was going to be spun around at inhuman speeds--not unlike a cat stuck in a washing machine--while a contraption strapped to my eyes made me hallucinate that I was actually escaping a crazy supervillain asylum. What’s more, I was paying for the privilege. Or, well, Tom was.

 

Not for the first time, I wondered if God had known how crazy we would become with time, and whether or not He had bet on us being popcorn-worthy entertainment. _Hope you are happy now, big guy. We are all making fools of ourselves._

 

Maybe God was Loki. That explained it.

 

When we were the first in line, Tom looked like he was on a sugar high. I, on the other hand, had jelly legs. “Tom?” I muttered as some sadistic woman strapped me into the chair.

 

He grinned at me. “Yes, darling?”

 

“I hate you.”

 

And we started moving to the soundtrack of _ehehehehe_. Fucker.

* * *

 

My legs needed a few more minutes to realize they were on the ground after the ride. I admitted with minimum of scowling that the ride had actually been fun. Not that Tom could hear me that well. His ears were still ringing from the way I had screamed bloody murder in his ears.

 

He was still smiling indulgently as he supported quite a bit of my weight. I looked like the town drunk, and Tom looked like he might be my designated driver. Which wasn’t that far from the truth, really, considering he was going to be dropping me home now. I was hungry for actual food, smelled of my own nervous sweat a little, and the most comfortable pair of shoes I owned were killing me.

 

“Time to go home,” said Tom, saying what I was thinking.

 

I made a random noise, nodding against his neck as I snuggled up to him. He was so ridiculously tall, it wasn’t even awkward walking with my face planted in his neck.

 

We were silent for a bit as Tom navigated through the sea of tourists. “I am going to miss the fucking shit out of you,” I finally said.

 

My head jostled as Tom laughed. He sobered up quickly, though. “Hey,” he said, voice serious. Stopping in the middle of the path, he tilted my face up until I was looking into his eyes. “I am going to miss the fucking shit out of you too.”

 

I let loose a laugh that sounded suspiciously like a sob, and tackled him in a big hug. Tom’s hugs could cure the world.

 

“Why, thank you darling,” he said smugly, and I guess I had said that out loud.

* * *

 

 

Tom had told me a few days ago that he hated eating in a plane, and so I had bought a couple of subs for us, as a private joke. I would have ordered proper room service, but I knew he would get late for his flight, so sub it was. Mine was chicken and his was meatball. They were both currently getting cold on top of the fridge in my room while we snogged like randy teenagers.

 

I finally pulled off with Herculean effort when I started turning blue in the face from lack of oxygen. “Okay,” I panted. “Okay, okay, okay. This is nuts. Oh man.”

 

Tom looked far more interested in playing tonsil hockey than catching his plane, but I slapped a hand on his chest to keep him in place. “Nope,” I muttered. “We are taking a break from the face sucking.”

 

“So romantic, darling,” he said as he accepted his meatball sub and took a bite. His expression told me he approved of dinner.

 

“When will your flight land in Tokyo again?”

 

“Around 3 in the afternoon.”

 

“Long commute,” I muttered. Inside, I was screaming at myself for the inane babble. Shouldn’t we be talking about something more meaningful?

 

“Yeah,” said Tom, carefully not looking at me. “Around twenty six hours total.”

 

“Fuck! Even trips from India to the States were twenty or so hours.” We were silent for a while. “Text me from Tokyo?”

 

“Of course,” said Tom. I could see he was surprised that I had to ask. “Hey, think of this as our long-distance relationship test phase.”

 

“I live in London,” I reminded him gently. “Why exactly do we need a long distance relationship test?”

 

Tom’s face suddenly flamed. “For… you know,” he flapped his hands about a bit, but artfully managed to keep marinara sauce off my bedding. “When I am on my next project. Or when you are on yours. Our jobs take us places.”

 

My throat closed up even as a chant of holy fucking shit started in my head. We hadn’t talked about the future yet. I had no idea how to navigate in this relationship, so I was trying to not sound clingy or psycho by suggesting a future past the wrap party. A part of me thought Tom might be too polite to brush me off, and then he would be stuck with me forever. But he had just… he had talked of different projects. Of a life together.

 

And right now my lack of answer was making him regret saying anything. Shit.

 

“That’s true,” I said, trying to sound as though my heart wasn’t clogging my throat. “I guess we do need that test phase.”

 

I might not eat beef, but Tom’s kiss tasted of the perfect marinara sauce, and I loved it.

* * *

 

Every girl out there who has a sister will understand the extreme love I have for my sister. They will also understand the uncontrollable urge that I sometimes get, to scream at her to stop fucking teasing me because I am a grown ass woman.

 

Of course, I still tease her, so I think the point is moot.

 

“I don't even know what we are to each other at this point,” I said. “I don't think I am ready to define it.”

 

“Uh huh,” she said. “Buy new underwear.”

 

I clutched my phone harder in reflex. “It’s not like that!”

 

“You should tell your boyfriend then. If you just intend to use him and throw him away, he should know.”

 

“He’s not my boyfriend,” I said, exasperated. I couldn't even muster enough energy to yell at this point.

 

“Does he know that?”

 

“Oh my God, why am I still talking to you?”

 

“Because you need underwear advice. Hey, do they make Loki underwear?”

 

“I have to go,” I said hastily. “I am late for my appointment.”

 

“What appointment?” laughed my sister. “Oh my God, are you getting a bikini wax?” Her voice got so shrill I could hear my brother-in-law ask her if she was fine.

 

Fuck.

 

So… I am murdering my sister.

* * *

I have gone nuts.

 

It’s all Didi’s fault, really. She was the one who started me down the path to thinking about sex with Tom, and that was when I realized I didn’t really have any classy underwear. I hadn’t stepped foot in a Victoria’s Secret, ever. I had never bought underwear with the goal of undressing before a man in mind.

 

So of course now I was standing in the middle of the shopping centre, staring at the sexy posters and wondering if I really had enough nerve to go into Victoria’s Secret.

 

It’s not as if I had specifically come to Harbour Town for that. Nope. I had actually needed some supplies for work, and had spent the last two hours hunting them. But now that the work was done, Victoria’s Photoshopped Angel’s were calling me.

 

I was so entranced by the lace and silk in the display window that I jumped when my phone chimed. It was just a Tumblr notification.

 

Walking away, I tapped on it. It was Rosa, the barista I had befriended. I smiled. Talks with her were certainly entertaining.

 

 

Fuck, fuck, fuckity fuck.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Fun fact : I am writing the second chapter, and just spent around six minutes looking at a picture of Loki, trying to decide what order his costume goes on.


End file.
